


Fresh Hell And A New Tomorrow, or How James Norrington Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

by captain_starcat



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: (far more of the latter than the former), (vast amounts of banter), Adventure, Angst and Humor, Banter, Canon-Typical Dumping on the French, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, I did historical research but then ignored most of it, M/M, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Plotty, Post-At World's End, Pre-Slash, Resurrection, Revolution, Running Around, Slow Burn, The Promise of Redemption, Updating tags as I go, hella au, possibly still more accurate than the movies but that means nothing, slowest most uncertain burn ever I’m so sorry, technically Post-On Stranger Tides but that's not actually important
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22385989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_starcat/pseuds/captain_starcat
Summary: After his fatal sacrifice on theFlying Dutchmanon the way to Shipwreck Cove, James Norrington, formerly Commodore of His Majesty’s Royal Navy and more recently Admiral of the East India Trading Company, didn’t expect to wake up ever again.Unfortunately, that’s exactly what happened.Now that he’s alive again (as near as he can tell), he has a whole host of new and interesting problems to face, from mysterious goddess-given responsibilities, to the growing spectre of a reforming EITC, to the simple, messy reality of living with the side he chose. And of course, when has James’ suffering ever been complete without the interference of the world’s worst—and most annoying—pirate?Honestly, life would've been so much easier if he'd stayed dead...
Relationships: James Norrington/Jack Sparrow
Comments: 44
Kudos: 137





	1. Time To Make A Move, Time To Make Amends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kayliemalinza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/gifts).



> This project has been years in the making, but I'm super excited to finally begin to share this story with you all! I hope it brings some entertainment in these dreary times. Enjoy! :)
> 
> (To everyone who commented or left kudos on my previous Sparrington fic, even up to this _day_ (month): omg u guys, I wrote that as a wee thing in 2007(!!), I am shocked and touched you've liked it so much and it has somehow become my fic with the most hits?? I love you all, this one's for you.)

_"Death has a curious way of reshuffling one's priorities," Jack Sparrow said to me once, and leave it to a lunatic to casually express what ordinary mortals should never experience, but I suppose that's Sparrow for you. Indeed, I find my own priorities quite shuffled these days: the choices I have made (and the situations in which I have found myself) would no doubt horrify the self I was not five years ago. That younger self was very sure about the world and his place in it; derived, I realize now, from the luxury of a naivete I no longer possess._

_The world has changed a great deal since then—but perhaps not as much as my understanding of it— and I find myself a different man than the James Norrington who first encountered Jack Sparrow on the docks of Port Royal and thought him but another evil pirate to bring to swift justice. My life was considerably simpler then, and I do miss the sense of knowing my cause was righteous and I held the power of law to back it. It was that reliance on law to deliver justice, however, that betrayed me when I required it most. I will not make that mistake again._

_Allow me to clarify, at this juncture, that by no means do I imply that I no longer harbour a desire to see Sparrow dead. I wish Sparrow's suffering and demise constantly. Alas, I rely on him entirely too much these days, in our line of work, to see him off properly—and I find there are times the constant urge to watch him perish becomes confused with fondness, and there's little I can do about that._

_Some days I wake up and can scarcely comprehend how I came to be where I am. How I have fallen so far from the path I was set on, and yet have somehow come to find a place in this mad world where my fate is (more or less) my own, and I can be of some small use to the common good._

_Everything began, of course, when I was killed. Obviously many things ended that foggy night, most significantly my life, but an ending can serve also as a beginning, and I would not be where I am without the events that transpired that night on the_ Flying Dutchman _, and the choices I made in return._

_Do I remember my death? Yes, although I would rather not. This is not the story of how I died. That story has been told. This is the story of how I came back to life._

_I do not know, exactly, how I returned to the realm of the living._ _What I know is this: instead of death, I awoke to find myself in the care of a powerful entity, in exceedingly strange circumstances—and a world descending further into chaos…_

_ • * • _

[Somewhere off the coast of southern Florida, right as the sun dipped below the horizon, a brilliant green light flashed across the waves.]

_ • * • _

Consciousness returned slowly, in a wash of pain, and had to be dragged in piecemeal from a long way off. His whole existence was a raw, sensitive hurt. Last he remembered was dark and damp and furor and shouting, and the smell of gunpowder and blood over rotting salt-sea. Whatever that had been, it seemed a lifetime ago. Wherever he was now was calm, peaceful. Opening his eyes was a herculean task he wasn't up to yet, so he couldn't tell if he was inside or out, on land or water, but there was a faint, sweet breeze and the sense of sunlight about.

Something dripped on his forehead, sensitivity magnifying it into a gunshot, and suddenly James remembered dying. The shock of the sharpened spar-end in his gut, encroaching darkness under the pain and indignity—and then nothing. And now—

That was a problem. Was he dead? He was _conscious,_ more or less. This was certainly not oblivion. Hell, perhaps? Persistent pain aside, he’d always assumed Hell would be less…soothing. And Heaven had never been a consideration, he was under no illusion about that. He felt alive, or something uncomfortably near it. Considering all he had seen and the aching _wrong_ he felt, he feared it possible he’d joined the living dead.

Dreading the sight of slime and barnacles—or a moonlit skeleton—James gathered his strength and forced open his eyes. He regret it instantly, and slammed them shut. Bright light seared a bolt of pain through his skull and refused to coalesce into an image. He groaned, hoarse, and felt a cool pressure against his cheek in return.

"Jamie Norrington. Ever the fighter." The voice was female and locally accented. She sounded amused, probably at James' expense. "Barely alive and tryna get back in the game."

James tried his eyes again, slowly, and began to make out a dark shape moving around next to him. He still couldn't tell where he was. One moment it seemed he was in the bottom of a longboat under an unnaturally bright sky; the next, a sun-dappled wooden room, hung with mysterious and oddly scented objects; and then he was staring up at a strange dune, hard sand rough under his back. Concentrating on the effect only added a dizzy nausea to the aching, so he stopped.

"You still needed in the world, but you rest now. You wake when it's time," the voice soothed, and James' mind started to fuzz and drift. He barely felt the gentle touch to his forehead, wiping away the lingering drip, before his hard-won consciousness slipped away again.

_ • * • _

James Norrington jerked awake with a gasp. He did not know the date, nor his location, nor anything else of his situation—save that he was on a boat. His head was foggy, but nothing hurt anymore; in fact, he hadn’t felt quite this hale and hearty in… years, probably. The sun was warm and pleasant, and a refreshing breeze blew ineffectually through the sail of his tiny skiff, bobbing on a calm sea.

The horizon stretched unbroken but for waves on all sides. He was utterly alone. Except, he realized, for the small silver crab perched on his chest. He blinked at it. It blinked back. He reached cautiously to move it so he could sit up. It was delicate in his hand, though it possessed far greater weight than James expected from its size.

"Welcome back, Jamie Norrington."

That same teasing voice, remembered in hazy dreams, whispered across the water. It slithered through the scant rigging and reverberated in the silver crab. James startled hard, and through sheer luck, did not fling the crab out of the boat.

Gathering his wits, he sat up and raised it to eye level. "What—" he coughed, voice rusty. "What happened? Am I alive? …Where is 'back'?"

"You were dead," the whisper laughed. "And now you back in the world again."

"I… see." James said, though he mostly didn’t. He took a moment to look around the small skiff, at the open ocean that surrounded him. From the familiar smell of the wind, the currents and the color of the water, he fancied he was somewhere in the Bahamas, though he had no proof and no way to determine his position.

He was still wearing the Company Admiral's uniform, he’d noticed, with its jagged hole through the abdomen as a grisly souvenir. The flesh beneath had healed into a neat scar. It was, for many reasons, not what he would prefer to be wearing. The outfit had been a compromise from the start, he could admit that now—Beckett had been insufferable, but the EITC had the King’s charter, and James, believing optimistically in the justice of order, had been in desperate need of both legitimacy and a new start.

"That still leaves the question of why," he pointed out, hoping not to sound as bitter as he felt.

“A favor for a favor,” said the crab, or maybe the wind. “I have a job that need doing, but I cannot myself be there. So I will need your eyes and your ears, your hands and your heart. That job will come. In the meantime, you fulfill a favor that was asked of me.”

A job offer—or obligation?—from some manner of powerful magical being was something out of a dark fairytale, but it also sounded promisingly like _direction_ , which James had sorely missed of late. “What do need me to do?” he asked the crab.

“There are powers seeking to control these waters. They plan things they should not be meddling with. I need you to find me the truth, and, if they plot what I think, put an end to it,” she said. “But that will come later. For now, the favor. Someone need my help, and that help will be you.”

James sighed and ran a hand through his hair. No hat, he noted, nor powdered wig, just his own hair tied into a small queue. “And for some reason, you need _me_ ,” he snapped, no longer able to contain the burning ball of anger and shame. “Why would you _possibly_ _—_ ”

"I NEED NOT EXPLAIN MYSELF, MORTAL,” she boomed, shuddering violently through the atmosphere, and a sudden wind rocked the skiff. James found himself, somehow, with brand new decisions to regret.

She calmed then, wind dying, to add, “But you love the sea, and the sea notice. Despite all them things you thought were right." The faceless voice hardened again on those last words, and left an expectant silence.

"I have certainly come to question a great deal of my beliefs," said James, feeling very small. He looked down at himself again, at the itchy, stained remnants of his last (itchy, stained) station. He missed the feeling of rightness and belonging his old uniform had given him. The Commodore. He hadn’t felt like that since before the hurricane.

“So, Admiral, will you do it?” She asked.

“I’m not an Admiral anymore,” he said tightly. “In fact— excuse me,” he said, putting down the crab, “—this will probably get me killed.” He gestured to the uniform. “Again.”

He removed the coat and yellow waistcoat, tossing the latter over the side with great prejudice. The coat almost followed, but he stopped and examined it. With the small knife he found at his belt, he ripped off as much of the matching yellow brocade as he could; it joined the waistcoat in drifting away. He watched them go and realized he was gripping the side of the skiff with white knuckles.

"I am not sure what I have without my previous convictions, however," he added after a moment. He put the remains of the coat back on, awkwardly, in the ensuing silence. The crab stared him down. Feeling foolish, James adjusted the wool across his shoulders and picked the creature up again.

"You chose a side, Jamie Norrington. Remember that. As for the rest, you will learn." Apparently she was back to laughing at him. "That feel better though, don't it?"

James took a breath, and realized it did. "Much," he replied, a genuine smile threatening to break free. Feeling charitable, he let it.

The skiff drifted, bobbing in the sunshine. James was loathe to break the peaceful silence, but he had to ask.

"So… if you’re absolutely sure it’s me you want helping you, where am I to begin? And I seem to have missed your name." He aimed for casual and managed well enough.

“Find the one who asked my help and offer your service. Don’t worry, you the best person for the job. Besides," she added conspiratorially, "it has been a long, long time since I last agreed with Davy Jones." The crab winked.

James stared at it. "Who asked for help?"

"That I cannot say. You see soon enough. When you find him, you promise to help?"

"Where is this person?” he tried. “Who _are_ you?”

"You will know him. Will you help?" the whisper asked, insistent.

Apparently he wasn’t going to get any answers. "I suppose," he relented, tamping down annoyance.

“Swear to me,” she hissed.

“Fine, I swear.”

"Good. Remember your choices, No-Longer-Admiral. Honor them. Your path await. Tell him Calypso sent you and he deserve every bit—and more!" The crab began to laugh, prickling unpleasantly in James' fingers. He quickly put it down. It scuttled up and over the side of the boat and plopped into the waves.

A sudden sigh of wind ruffled through James' hair and caught hard in the single flapping sail. The skiff jerked forward, speeding towards some unknown destination. He fumbled for the mainsheet and tiller, but the canvas sat fat and full and steering appeared to be moot. Calypso had control of the situation, apparently, so James sat back—still full of questions, but content to enjoy the fresh spray and the first taste of peace he'd not known in far too long.

_ • * • _

The breeze let him go several hours later as the sun was starting to tip down towards the horizon. There was little fanfare to it; one moment the skiff was hurtling along, and the next the wind died and shifted and the sail began to luff. James rose, stretched, and went to haul it in.

"Thank you," he called, unsure of Calypso's continued presence. "I don't believe I said that before, but thank you."

"Good luck," he thought the wind sang, but it was faint and he couldn't be sure.

Empty water stretched out around the tiny craft. James scanned the horizon, and there: distant and unsteady over the waves, a smudge of land. He adjusted his course. He could probably make it before nightfall.

He reached the island as the sun was slipping under the waves—though calling it an island was charitable, really. It was little more than an overgrown sandbar with a clump or three of brush playing at being jungle, and potentially a small spring.

It did not escape his notice that the island was also populated. A dinghy very much like his own was pulled up on the sand, and James could see the glow of a fire down the beach.

He hoped the dinghy's owner wouldn't mind sharing the island for the night.

_ • * • _

Really, he should have known.

He was knee deep in the surf, pulling in the skiff, when he caught sight of the island's other occupant. James stopped, blinked, and stared, mood plummeting. It couldn't possibly be, but it was: 'Captain' Jack thrice-damned Sparrow, stumbling up the beach toward him. James would recognize that inebriated walk across a fully packed market day plaza by this point.

Of all the godforsaken sandbars…! A wave hit the back of his legs and he was jolted into motion. It was just like Sparrow, James decided, to keep turning up unwanted and unasked-for at low and confusing points in James' life.

He got the skiff onto the beach and turned around to face the pirate, who froze dramatically just the other side of his dinghy. James watched Sparrow's expressive face go flinty, and knew he'd been recognized.

"Commodore-Admiral-Deckhand Norrington! Long time no see. I heard we were finally free of your meddlesome presence. Was that merely a rumor, or have you joined us legions of the resurrected and/or otherwise undead?"

Sparrow jolted back into motion and began to ooze around the dinghy, losing some of the ice in his words. "Well, collective maybe—need a few more for a proper legion, aye? And besides, you may've been one for legionning, but I for one have never gone for that whole rank and discipline…frippery." He made a face and some sort of hand spasm. "Probably the worst of the Roman inventions—unless you count using geese in the privvy."

James stared him down. Sparrow was unfazed. He wasn't sure if the pirate had gotten odder, or if it only seemed so due to lack of recent exposure.

"What are you on about, Sparrow?" he asked, finally breaking.

Sparrow looked aggrieved. "Would it kill you to call me Captain?"

He appeared to be waiting for an answer, but then twitched violently, narrowing his eyes at something to his left James couldn’t see.

“What? I know that,” Sparrow snapped to empty air. Furrowing his brow, James opened his mouth to ask, but the pirate shook himself at the last moment and instead turned as sober and serious as James had ever seen him.

"So: did you die, or didn't you?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me, Commodore."

"I’m no longer a Commodore, Sparrow.” James tried to keep his anger in check. “Thanks to you, as you might recall.”

“Formalities,” the pirate waved dismissively. “Now, answer the bloody question, if you would be so kind.”

James sighed. “I have memories of dying. Evidence seems to suggest as much," he gestured to the holes in his shirt and jacket, still stained around the edges. "I do not know the means by which I am here now, however."

Sparrow's face took on a thoughtful cast. "No idea at all?"

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“Humour me.”

"Fine,” James relented. “Apparently, someone asked an entity named Calypso for a favor, and for some reason I’m to be her response."

Eyes widening manically, Sparrow managed a strangled "Is that so?"

 _You will know him_ , Calypso’s words echoed. “That was you,” James realized, sudden and sinking. “Wasn’t it.”

"I most certainly did not ask for _you_ ," Sparrow said, affronted.

"You asked for someone—or something—else." James pinched the bridge of his nose. "Is this about your ship." He didn’t manage to make it a question.

“No! Well, yes.” Sparrow had the grace to look mildly chagrined. "It may, in fact, be about my ship."

James sat back on his heels and crossed his arms. "You know, last time I saw you, I believe you _had_ your ship," he drawled. "What happened?"

"Ah,” Sparrow said. “That.” Venom dripped from his tone. “I cannot be _entirely_ sure, but I was under the _impression_ that a certain disgraced-former-Commodore, whom I _graciously_ let on my crew, stole a certain thumpy bit of _leverage_ I needed to keep me out of the Locker of a certain tentacled failure of a psychopomp, and _instead_ delivered it to a certain vertically-challenged maniac with delusions of world domination—the result of which being that myself, and my _Pearl,_ were devoured by Jones’ sea monster and control of the oceans was handed over to Cutler Beckett and the East India Trading Company," he spat. "Does that ring any bells for you, _Admiral_?"

Inwardly, James deflated. He drew a breath, straightened his spine in an unconscious mimicry of parade rest, and forced himself to meet Sparrow's cold, mad eyes.

"I won’t beg your forgiveness. Obviously I have sins to atone for. Calypso seemed to think… I deserved another chance. For redemption. Because that worked so well before," he added bitterly.

Sparrow regarded him, uncharacteristically still, face and eyes blank. Night had fallen completely, and the dim glow of the fire down the beach and the silver stirrings of the rising moon were all that lit his elfin face. Somewhere in the sparse underbrush, insects chirped. James, trying not to fidget under Sparrow’s slightly-vacant stare, was debating the merits of _not_ helping Sparrow retrieve the blasted ship he’d lost _again,_ and instead, running off and forging a new identity—or better yet, perhaps he could throw himself back to the depths to tell Calypso this was all a mistake, and she should have just left him dead—when Sparrow finally broke the stillness.

The pirate twitched suddenly, glared at James, then turned on his heel and walked down to the edge of the lapping waves. “Tia, darling, you are _killing_ me here,” Sparrow told the ocean. “Him? Really? I mean, must you? Was this _entirely_ necessary?”

He seemed to wait a moment for an answer, then scoffed and walked back up the beach. "Well, Commodore, I've learned not to argue with the decisions of heathen goddesses—"

"Is that what she is," James murmured. Sparrow shot him a quelling look.

"—and if you're all that I get, I suppose you'll have to do." He sniffed and gave James a dubious once-over.

James arched an eyebrow. "I'm thrilled you have such confidence in me," he said flatly.

"Beggars can't be choosers, mate, and I'm tired of talking to meselves. Any provisions in that little boat of yours or am I going to have to share my fish?"

_ • * • _

An unassuming compartment in the prow of the skiff yielded several cloth-wrapped packages of dried fish and hardtack, as well as a small supply of fresh water. The rations bore a stamp with a simple image of a crab, and James sent a silent thank-you to Calypso for her gift.

"All that _and_ this fine boat? That is uncommonly kind for dear ol' Calypso," Sparrow peered over his shoulder at the supplies. "She appears be exceedingly fond of you, Commodore. My guess is you’re in with it for sure, if you haven’t been already."

"My dealings with the heathen goddess I have barely met have remained strictly platonic, actually," James said, examining the packet of fish.

Sparrow slouched back with a wicked smirk. "There's a pity. Don't know what you're missing, mate."

"Perhaps she likes me because unlike you, I do not kiss and tell."

"Have you been doing any kissing, then? Here I was thinking you Navy lads didn't go for that sort thing. Just a quick in and out, all business. No romance in the modern Navy, am I right?"

"I believe I just said I'm not going to tell you, Sparrow."

"I think I may have a cure for that. Grab your fish." Sparrow snatched the frayed remains of James' sleeve and dragged him over by the fire, where James discovered that Sparrow's provisions consisted of a single small fish impaled on a stick, and many, many bottles of rum.

Sparrow plopped down onto the sand, motioning for James to join him. James considered refusing out of principle, but Sparrow was looking wide eyed and (mostly) serious again, holding up a bottle.

"As it seems we’ve both had the unusual and disturbing experience of dying and returning once more to the land of the living, I propose a deal: I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," Sparrow offered. "Join me for a drink, Commodore?"

James considered it. He was newly back from the dead, and faced with eating fish jerky from a goddess across a beach bonfire from Jack Sparrow. Sharing a drink with the pirate would not increase the weirdness of this situation. With a shrug, James folded himself down onto the sand and accepted the bottle.

_ • * • _

One deep swig became two, and three. After the second, James asked, "Why did it matter whether I died or not? Either way I'm still here."

"It's the principle of the thing," said Sparrow, peering dramatically through the smoked glass of his bottle. "Needed to know if I could trust you." James motioned him to continue, and Sparrow flicked a hand back at him before proceeding.

"I heard from the as-then-not-yet Mrs. Turner her version of what you did aboard the Dutchman. Very noble sacrifice and all that, lovely gesture for Lizzie there, saving her skin and then dying for her,” he said. “Also saves you the trouble of sorting out your loyalties, am I right? Cheap way out, but you’re here now, as you rightly say.

“But say you _hadn't_ died for Elizabeth,” Sparrow continued, leaning in. “Beckett and his mangy pet toad may be gone, but we both know the Company lives on, in the fat old geezers in ugly jewelry pulling strings back on the Continent, and all the troops in the islands who haven’t been told the plan’s off yet. After your stunt on the _Dutchman,_ I would be shocked _and_ suspicious if they didn't just kill you themselves. An Admiral of the Company defecting? Can’t let word get out about that. Lucky Jones got to you first, aye? Unless he didn't, and you're here in someone's employ, savvy?

Sparrow straightened. “But you seem to be of your word—at the moment—and Tia's vouched for you, so you’re free to share my island here," he said, with an expansive sweep of his arm.

“But you can’t have my peanut,” he quickly added, eyes suddenly very crazy and fixed on James. James blinked back. “Or the rum. The rum is completely off limits. You are not Lizzie, so I _will_ run you through, don’t think I won’t.”

“What about this rum?” James asked, raising an eyebrow and the bottle he’d been nursing.

“That is now your rum, and no longer my concern,” Sparrow said with great dignity.

A silence fell. The fire popped loudly, and insects buzzed in the bushes up the beach.

"So Beckett is dead?" asked James, as that seemed to be the most salient part of Sparrow's rambling.

"Along with that miserable assassin of his."

"Thank God. And Elizabeth—Mrs. Turner," he corrected, trying the feel of it in his mouth, "is alive?"

"Aye, got hitched to the whelp in the middle of battle—after being elected Pirate King of the Brethren Court and declaring war on the entire East India Company," Sparrow shrugged. "She'll be fine, Commodore."

"Pirate _King_?"

"Now that," Sparrow said, leaning back in the sand, his smile glinting gold, "is a long story."

_ • * • _

The fire burned down, and Sparrow spun James tale after increasingly-preposterous tale he swore were absolute truth. James would be a fool not to believe in the unbelievable by this point—his current presence was testament to that—but he refused, out of principle, to fall for anything that came out of Jack Sparrow’s mouth. That being said, it wasn’t the stories James objected to. By the time Sparrow collapsed for the night, he had also made it clear he expected James to sail with him from here on out.

“We’ll take your boat, of course,” he’d said, waving around his bottle, almost to dregs. “Portage this one somewhere amongst the foliage, come back for it later if we ever need another dinghy. It’ll take at least three days to make Tortuga, as long as our supplies hold out.”

“You’re counting my cooperation as a given,” James said, peeved.

“You’re my jar of dirt,” Sparrow said, like it explained everything.

James stared at him blankly. Sparrow sighed, rolled his eyes like _James_ was the one being a massive burden, and tried again.

“Calypso granted me a boon, which for some reason is you. I need help regaining the Pearl, and you’re my secret weapon. Not sure exactly how you fit in the plan yet,” he said. “but that’s trivial. Just need to find Gibbs now.”

Ah yes, Gibbs. Back in the service, James had always thought Gibbs a fool. But he’d been a better commanding officer, when James had been relegated to scrubbing the deck with his own wig, than many James had suffered in his career. Nevertheless: “I’m not going with you, Sparrow. I wasn’t brought back to help you catch your wild goose.”

“How do you know?” Sparrow mumbled through a yawn, then, maddeningly, curled up and started to snore.

To be honest, James didn’t know. But he was sure his renewed purpose among the living couldn’t be so… pointless. Absurd. Speaking of absurd, something about Sparrow’s nonsense suddenly snapped into focus. James remembered a glass jar in the bottom of a lifeboat, a pile of dirt that didn’t belong, and the heady, vicious rush of finally _winning_ against that damned impossible pirate. Was that the jar Sparrow meant? Was James to be just another element of another self-serving scheme, another tool for Sparrow to use? Or worse, a bargaining chip, traded to save Sparrow's own skin?

Events were moving too fast. James needed to get away from the madman, needed time to go over his fate and his options, time to come to terms with his resurrection. Sparrow was snoring in earnest now, so James, who’d drunk considerably less, quietly got up, prepared his meager boat and supplies to sail with the dawn tide, and settled in for a couple hours sleep.

_ • * • _

The sky the next morning dawned warning red.

James swore to himself, dread mounting, but if he wanted to give Sparrow and his presumptuous, _infuriating_ recruitment the slip, he had no choice. He pushed out with the tide.

Sure enough, the sky grew dark long before midday, the surf turning choppy as the winds picked up. The little skiff struggled through it, tossing wildly, sail slapping against the mast as James hung on with grim determination. And then the rain started.

Soaked through and feeling increasingly like a drowned cat, James kept the skiff afloat and plunging onward best he could through the waves. Survival took precedence over reflection, but he couldn’t shake a sense of gnawing unease. _Surely_ _Sparrow couldn’t_ _be_ _the_ only _person_ _to ask the favor of a goddess_ _of_ _Calypso’s power?_ he tried to rationalize. It didn’t help.

A wave hit the boat, and there was something in the wind and water and the quality of light—and suddenly James was back on the _Dauntless_ off Tripoli, struggling through the hurricane, and the wind was howling and men were shouting and the ship was taking on water and—and then it was gone, and James was left shaking.

He took a few gasping breaths, pulled himself back to the present, readjusted his heading. It was a strange comfort, at least, that were he to lose another vessel to the sea and his own stubbornness, this time the only life the storm could take was his own. Finally, after hours of tearing wind and angry whitecaps, he saw the flash of a fort’s signal beacon through the gloom, and it was easily one of the best sights of his life.

It was almost pure luck he found the soft, gently sloped beach among the rest of the coastline’s jagged reefs, and he guided the skiff aground on it. With the gale threatening to capsize the small boat with every gust, James didn’t have the luxury of attempting to locate the island’s marina. He had no idea where he was. Rescuing his meager supplies, he pulled the skiff as far onto the beach as he could, and set off into the howling evening to find civilization, or something resembling it.

_ • * • _

The island, thankfully, had a town—and the town, James knew, was bound to have at least one watering hole to its name. What remained was a matter of finding it. The armed patrol that interrupted his search was unexpected, but not moreso than the all-too-familiar Company livery they wore. The EITC, apparently, had been hard-up of late, as the patrol made no secret of targeting James for a shameless press-ganging. Or perhaps it was merely an indiscriminate arrest. It was hard to tell, in the early stages.

Regardless, he found himself backed into a blind alley with uniformed men circling in. One made a grab for the tattered edge of his coat, but James ducked out in the blinking after-images of a lightning flash and he was around the corner and free. First Sparrow and then the Company. For God’s sake, James just wanted to be his own master for a bit, was that so much to ask?

As he ran through drenched streets, he discovered he wasn’t alone in his misfortune: gangs of Company soldiers were out in force, banging on doors and rounding up passers-by, stopping, searching, questioning. He quickly slowed his gait to a purposeful walk, dripping head bent against attention and the wind.

To his dismay, James recognized the Company tactic unfurling on this island. He had even played his part once or twice, before he’d been reassigned to the _Dutchman_. This was the first he had experienced it from the other side, however, and honestly he could not say which was worse. Of course skulking in the shadows, hunted, was hardly pleasant—but not bearing official responsibility for the successful intimidation and control of a civilian population was a stronger relief than he would have expected, had he thought to expect it.

He suspected the Company had not been here long. As he navigated its muddy streets, the town reminded James of Port Royal when he’d sailed back in with Jones’ heart: patching itself up, resenting the new amenities, enforced calm over a seething populace whose heads had not yet been beaten in. Tensions running high, security out in droves—bad time to be here, wherever he was. James’ only saving grace was the gale, blowing hard enough to hide any number of sins, not least his own.

Ready to try his luck at a side street, he turned a corner and almost ran into a lone Company soldier, braving the storm to relieve himself against a wall. After a brief moment of shock, they both moved at the same time—the soldier fumbled to close his pants, and James sprung to strike. It was over in a moment. James looked down at the young man sprawled senseless in the mud, and waged a quick, furious internal battle. Loyalties of his victim aside, stealing was stealing, and made him no better than Sparrow. On the other hand, James no longer had any claim to moral authority, if he ever did, and desperately needed any funds he could get his hands on. And a shirt that hadn’t seen his death.

_ • * • _

One coin purse richer, James followed the narrow lane to its outlet, his new mud-spattered shirt still carrying a whiff of starch around the collar. His coat remained a disgrace, but that was a less urgent matter. He needed a place to stay, at least until the storm stopped. Fortunately, James’s time in Tortuga had been a valuable (albeit painful) lesson in lying low with the gutter trash—and equally fortuitously, the run-down tavern up ahead looked like the best place to carry the plan out. He hoped they had accommodations left.

He was out of luck. Rented rooms were in short supply, what with the gale. However, if James was interested, the barkeep had a friend with an empty barn loft—it wasn’t much, and the price would be the same, but it would be dry, and this friend “weren’t the type to be home if the Company came knocking, if you know what I mean.” This suited James just fine, and he said so.

The loft was not quite as leak-free as promised, but it served well enough, though the wind shrieked and groaned all night, rattling the timbers and threatening to pull down the entire structure. James slept poorly, plagued by nightmares: familiar faces rose out of a hungry sea, their accusing fingers pulling him to the depths. The storm howled recriminations and laments.

He awoke groggily to the dim, rainwashed gray of morning. The wind, if anything, was louder than it had been in his dreams, and still somehow full of phantom voices. A large gust sent a shudder through the floorboards, and above his head, the barn’s roof gave a particularly ominous creak. This was not where he wanted to spend the day, James decided firmly.

He fought his way back to the tavern, leaning against the driving rain. At one point, a flash of lightning illuminated the street, and for a moment, the slick cobblestones crawled with small, silver crabs. James blinked hard, heart seizing, but when he opened his eyes, nothing was there. A trick of the light, he told himself, unsettled; probably the lack of proper rest. A gust of wind pushed him inside the pub door as soon as he got it open.

Hours passed, and the storm outside raged on. The tavern filled to a dull roar. People came and left, windswept and mud-spattered. James nursed a drink or two, and at one point, a pie. It was hard to tell time, but he figured it must be well into afternoon when he spotted the familiar round and grizzled shape through the bar crowd. Gibbs, he realized with dismay. And where Gibbs could be found, Sparrow was sure to be imminent.

James took a last swig of his drink and rose from the table, intending to make himself scarce. He turned around—and almost collided face-first with the very person he wanted so desperately to avoid.

“Well well well, if it isn’t my wayward former-Commodore,” Sparrow said, no warmth to his wide grin. “See, I should’ve remembered, when we were having our little detente back on my island, that I can’t _trust_ you with my jars of dirt, can I _Admiral_?”


	2. Promise Me No Dead-End Streets

_“See, I should’ve remembered, when we were having our little detente back on my island, that I can’t_ trust _you with my jars of dirt, can I_ Admiral _?”_

_ • * • _

James was getting better: he almost didn’t flinch, that time, at the title. Sparrow’s smirk said he still noticed, the bastard.

“And here I sailed through a storm to get away from you. You could take the hint.”

Sparrow pouted. “You were supposed to help me.”

“And I am declining the opportunity,” said James. “Now if you'll excuse me—”

Sparrow grabbed James' lapel and dragged him in before he could twist away. “Look, _former Admiral_ ,” he said, quiet and close, “I'm sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that while our undergrown, pestilent and power-hungry friend has gone to the deep, this is still a Company town and not the most comfortable roost for a known turncoat such as yourself. At the very least, I can get you off this particular rock before infamy gets you up before the gallows. What say you?”

“Careful, Sparrow, you're sounding almost desperate,” James said, pulling himself free. “If I’m such a threat to your mad schemes, why bother to chase me down?”

“Well, partly for the novelty if I’m being honest,” Sparrow’s grin turned suddenly genuine, inviting James in on the joke. “You can appreciate the irony. I mean, walk a mile in your shoes, right?”

James couldn’t help his snort of laughter. “I admit, I quite enjoyed giving you the slip for a change. Although that still fails to explain why you would want _my_ help,” he added, the humor fading as quickly as it came.

“Setting aside the highly reasonable fact that I don't look gifts-from-goddesses-inclined-to-grant-me-favors in the mouth, so to speak,” said Sparrow, sidling closer again and dropping his voice conspiratorially, “I have a need of people I can trust right now, even if I can only trust them to be untrustworthy. And with Barbossa out of the picture, my list of untrustworthy sorts I can reliably trust to be untrustworthy is looking a mite…sparse. Can I trust you in this matter?”

James blinked, working out the clauses. “To betray you again at some unspecified point? Undoubtedly.”

“Oh good,” Sparrow said. At some point in his rambling, his hand had migrated to James’ back, and remained there, brushing against James’ shoulder-blade.

“Your familiarity, like your smell, should be taken elsewhere,” James tried to snarl—but Sparrow’s hand was warm, and the realization that James had not felt human touch since his resurrection was sudden and visceral. The point of contact was electrifying. He couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t make himself step away.

Sparrow gave him an odd look when James didn’t reply. “So you're in?” he prompted.

Before James could answer, the tavern door swung open with a bang. Three Company soldiers strode in and began checking the assorted patrons for papers.

“Blast,” James swore, shaking off his paralysis.

“That's our cue, walk with me,” Sparrow muttered absently, grabbing James by the arm and towing him towards the bar. James detached himself to throw a coin on the table as Sparrow eeled through the crowd to collect Gibbs, and they all ducked out into the dim wet light of the gale.

_ • * • _

Outside the pub wasn’t much better. Despite sheets of rain, Company forces patrolled the empty streets.

“Whatever happened to meeting Gibbs in Tortuga?” asked James, hair immediately whipping in his face. He didn’t know where ‘here’ was, but he knew Tortuga, and newly occupied or not, this wasn’t it.

“I never said that,” Sparrow said over the flapping of his coat. “I told Gibbs to meet me in Cockburn Town. Grand Turk?” he added when James looked blank.

“This is Grand Turk?” James narrowed his eyes. “I thought the French held it these days.”

“Not anymore,” Sparrow muttered, sing-song.

Gibbs snorted. “You don’t know where you are?”

“Believe it or not, Calypso neglected to furnish me with navigational data when she resurrected me in a dinghy in the middle of the ocean,” drawled James, peevish. “It probably slipped her mind, between manifesting as a crab and lecturing me on my life choices.”

Sparrow and Gibbs exchanged a look that made it clear what they thought of his life choices. He glared at them.

“Why on Earth would you knowingly meet Gibbs on a Company-controlled island?” James asked in a desperate bid to change the subject.

“You missed the part where finding an island _not_ controlled by the Company is increasingly hard these days, Commodore,” Sparrow said snidely. “Oh right, you were dead.”

“Oh yes I heard about that, welcome back and all,” Gibbs said, eyeing the stained holes in James’ jacket. He leaned in to mutter to Sparrow. “Why do we have him again?”

“Funny story,” Sparrow said as they picked their way around a particularly large puddle. James took a deep breath, and manfully resisted the urge to trip anybody into it.

_ • * • _

They paused for Gibbs to empty his shoe in the space between two run-down buildings. Between the wet gloom and their meandering route, James wasn’t sure how far from the tavern they were anymore, let alone his rented barn-loft.

Pressed close to the wall against the wind and rain, Sparrow whirled around on him. “There’ll be no more running away now, savvy? Not until I’ve convinced you to join me.”

“I’d really rather not,” James said over a loud rumble of thunder.

“Working with a pirate won’t kill you, you know,” Sparrow said. “In fact, I believe it was you deciding _not_ to work with me that got you killed, isn’t that right?”

“I said no, Sparrow,” James said, ignoring the pirate in favor of his watch over the muddy street. “I’m not sailing under your command again, once was enough.”

With a blinding flash and a loud, sizzling crack, the top of a palm tree exploded not fifty feet behind the house they sheltered against. All three men instinctively ducked. Thunder boomed across the leaden skies, and James realized they’d just had a very close call. They stared at the smouldering wreck of the palm’s trunk for a long moment.

Gibbs broke the shocked silence. “Lightning!” he gasped. “That’s a bad omen…”

Sparrow turned back to James. “Oi, what’s wrong with my command?”

“Oh, Sparrow,” James sighed. “Where do I begin…?”

“How about ‘sailing with’ instead of ‘sailing under’?” Gibbs cut in, shooting nervous looks at the dark sky and smoking tree. James and Sparrow both blinked at him. “Something a little more equal, how about that?”

James considered his once-nemesis, the bane of his existence, past and present. “I might consider it,” he said, and found the wind had died abruptly. His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet, punctuated only by the soft sound of rain. The world, it seemed, waited breathlessly on his answer.

Several days ago, James had been dead. He would have appreciated a longer recovery period before being subjected to Sparrow like this, when he still wasn’t fully certain of this new life and new world, but his feelings on the matter were obviously moot.

Nevertheless. For all that the pirate regularly managed to ruin James’ composure and, occasionally, his life, James knew Jack Sparrow wasn’t the devil incarnate. Compared to other pirates James had prosecuted, Sparrow’s record for violence was shockingly minimal—if one didn’t count repeatedly injuring James’ dignity and aggravating his temper. Elizabeth had even publicly vouched for him once or twice, and her judgment (save the obvious lapse wherein she ran off and became Pirate King and married Turner) was as strong and fine as any of her charms.

Sparrow, meanwhile, looked between Gibbs and James, panic on his face. “Wait wait wait—”

Furthermore, James noted fatalistically, working _against_ Jack Sparrow had only ever brought him misery and misfortune; a curse, apparently, even death couldn’t shake. Three days into resurrection, perhaps it was time to change the rules.

“We can manage that, can’t we?” said Gibbs, soothing a skittish beast. “Cap’n?”

“‘Captain’, yes, ‘Captain’, _I_ am the captain, you can’t just—” Sparrow sputtered, pushing sodden locks out of his face in increasing horror.

James turned to Gibbs, amused. “I believe your terms might be acceptable.”

As the words left his lips, the downpour abruptly stopped. Three heads ducked out from the roof’s overhang to find the clouds lightening dramatically, allowing a few shafts of sunlight through to the ground. Sparrow snorted. Gibbs hastily crossed himself, breathing a sigh of relief.

“You must be joking,” James said, staring out into the sudden lack of storm. As if it were—oh. Magic. His _bloody_ favorite.

 _That was my fault,_ James suddenly realized. The storm. He’d ignored his goddess-given directive, and Calypso had not been subtle in her displeasure. The shock of guilt and shame hit like a blow. He’d been a stubborn fool, and people could have gotten hurt, could have _died_ —and it would be all his fault, all over again.

Really, he ought to know better than to disrespect the will of powerful mystical figures—and James _knew_ that, he did, intellectually—but Sparrow always _did_ this to him, always managed to drag him down to his own petty, childish level.

The pirate in question leaned into James’ personal space, suddenly a lot cheerier. “What did you expect? Rule number one: never piss off a goddess who’s taken a liking to you. Just be glad there aren’t three of them fighting over you, or we’d have the Trojan War all over again.”

James glared, but unfortunately Sparrow had a point. He should have taken the hint—for the continued well-being of the island, if nothing else. “Glad to see it confirmed that I have no choice in this matter,” he said, as dry as he could manage under the weight of self-recrimination. “Apparently if I don’t help you, Tia, as you call her, destroys the world.”

“Pretty much,” Sparrow shrugged. Gibbs mirrored him, with a ‘what can you do’ expression.

“In fact,” Sparrow added sprightly, “I think you should apologize.”

“What, to you?” James asked.

“To our lovely goddess. A little ‘sorry I was a complete blistering idiot and refused to be nice to Captain Jack Sparrow like you told me to’ might go a long way…”

Deeply uncomfortable with the fact that Sparrow might be correct about this, James glowered, silent, for a long moment. “Not with you around.”

“Oh no,” Sparrow said, entirely too pleased with himself, “I definitely think you should get this off your chest and conscience soon as possible, what with the weight of all the other guilt you’re carrying around, Commodore.”

“I am not your entertainment, Sparrow,” James snapped. “And I’ve _told_ you, I’m not a Commodore.”

Sparrow opened his mouth to reply, but Gibbs cut him off. “Patrol!”

They retreated from the street to circle behind the buildings and, hopefully, away from Company forces. James took a moment when Sparrow and Gibbs were distracted debating direction to press a hand to his stomach, against the scar.

“I apologize," he whispered to the heavens. "I was… unthinking. Foolish.”

Immediately, a fresh breeze sprung up and the sun came out from the clouds, glittering off the half-flooded streets. James sighed, and generally despaired his existence.

_ • * • _

To James’ relief, apparently Sparrow did know how to move covertly, i.e, shut up and not draw attention to himself. James had been starting to wonder. They had so far succeeded at avoiding the patrols, but in the process had been pushed increasingly farther out of their way, much closer to the fort than any of them would have liked.

There was a chilling moment when, dashing across yet another small muddy street, James and the pirates barely escaped the notice of the detachment turning the next corner. The commander of the troop, bringing up the rear, seemed to turn and look directly at them—but the man rounded the corner with the others, and the sounds of their marching faded.

“Too close,” Gibbs muttered. James and Sparrow nodded in sync—and promptly exchanged looks of deep suspicion.

Determined to be more vigilant, James led them further down the alley, pausing at its end to scope the next cross-street.

“Hey there!” a voice called out suddenly from _far too close_ behind them. All three men jumped and turned around, and swore as they jumped again. Apparently the officer leading that last patrol _had_ seen them, because here he was, in their alley. James froze. Gibbs squeaked; Sparrow, eyes darting for escape, ducked behind him.

“Norrington! James Norrington!” the officer said, trotting up to them, and James’ stomach churned in a tight ball of horror. Damn it all, he wasn’t supposed to be _recognized_ —this was it, they were _utterly screwed_.

But then he drew closer, and James realized: he knew this man.

“I can’t believe it, it’s actually you! This is mad! I can’t believe you’re alive! They told me you died, you know,” said Lieutenant Theodore Groves. His wig and brocade were a little worse for wear from the rain, but otherwise he looked every inch the proper Company Officer, and exactly as James remembered him.

“You know this man, Commodore?” Gibbs asked warily as Sparrow sidled out from behind him.

“I was his commanding officer back when that title everyone _insists_ on using actually meant something,” James ground out, edging backwards. “Now if you please, we need to—”

“Hold on,” Groves interrupted, eyes widening, “is that actually Jack Sparrow? _Captain_ Jack Sparrow? I half thought you were dead as well!” he gasped. “But then of course _your_ ship was one of the two that destroyed _my_ ship in that insane battle with the pirates and the whirlpool and everything. Can I say, it is _such_ an honor to meet you properly. I’ve always said you were the best pirate I’d ever seen, didn’t I always say that, sir?” He swiveled, delighted, between Sparrow and James. Gibbs looked on in bemusement.

James felt a noise of long-suffering escape him, quite against his better intentions. He didn’t strictly _dislike_ Groves. As James’ lieutenant, he’d been competent and loyal. But the man had a relentless, upbeat optimism that always set James on edge; sane people, in James’ experience, were never that bloody chipper. And then, of course, there was his appalling taste in heroes.

“Is that so! Well son, I’m always delighted to meet a fan,” Sparrow purred. He’d grown increasingly radiant as Groves talked, swollen ego ready to burst. “Now tell me, has our dear Commodore always been such a wet blanket, or was there a time the stick up his arse was smaller than at present?”

Groves, the traitor, opened his mouth to answer, but James cut him off with a stern “ _Gentlemen._ …And Sparrow,” he amended, because while the literal forces of nature might insist he work with his least favorite pirate, no one said he had to be gracious about it. “We need to get out of here. Groves, _you never saw us_.”

“Screw that, he’s coming with,” Sparrow said. He turned to Groves. “Sorry lad, you’ve seen too much.”

“Wait, I actually need to talk to you—” Groves said to James.

“Okay, but while we’re _moving_ ,” James growled at them all.

_ • * • _

The quickest way off the streets turned out to be breaking into a small shed behind the nearest building. James had made the quick, visceral decision not to bring Sparrow, Gibbs, _and_ a Company man back to his barn-loft, for all that Groves was ex-Navy. It felt strange that he’d been so ready to lead the pirates there, _Sparrow_ there—but not Groves, whom he had trusted, in another life. But as he’d been so recently reminded, James had promises to keep. The side he chose back on the _Dutchman_ meant something now.

After a minute of shuffling around and finding places to sit or lean, they found themselves blinking at each other in the dusty slits of light spilling through the wooden walls.

“Now, what was it you want to tell us?” Sparrow asked from his perch.

“Well,” Groves settled in, radiating uncertainty, “it’s a bit of a long story. See—there’s a pub here I go to sometimes, off duty, and the last time I was there, I got to talking with several rather nice fellows. And I think they thought I was someone else, but—they told me a secret. I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he confided, “but this town is starting to seethe a bit, with unrest? Apparently it’s been a little iffy ever since the French took over, but now… well, now it goes further than that. Apparently, there are rumours of an actual _revolt against the Company_.” His voice was scandalized, but James had never seen him look quite so lost.

James glanced at Sparrow, who was busy trading a significant look with Gibbs.

“And I first thought I should tell somebody, and stop them?” Groves continued, worrying at a fingernail. “But then they explained why they’re so upset and why they want to do it, and—well, I started to realize they had some really good points. So I’ve been starting to wonder, you know, whether the East India Company _might actually_ be the baddies all along…?”

This time, James succeeded in catching Sparrow’s eye. There was something affected about his solemn agreement that made James suspect he was trying not to laugh.

“I’m honestly not sure what to do, now,” said Groves. “I haven’t said a word to anyone about it—except to you—but it’s been well over a week and nothing’s actually _happened_ yet.”

“So why _are_ you telling us?” Sparrow asked, intent expression at odds with his casual sprawl.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Groves said slowly, “and there are one or two things we’re doing at the fort that seem a bit more… I don’t know, _questionable_ than usual.”

Gibbs snorted. James hid a dark smile.

“It was bad under Beckett, but he was a madman with a _plan_ , you know?” Groves confessed, panic creeping into his voice. “But now, well, no one really knows what’s going on, or tells us what we’re supposed to be _doing_ , other than crowd control and arresting everybody. So I was waiting for this revolt to happen so they wouldn’t go through with things, I suppose. But time is running out and I think I might have to do it myself—and I could really use some help.”

“What are you talking about?” James asked, leaning forward. “What exactly are you trying to stop?”

“We’re supposed to hang a large number of people soon, to send a message—you remember how it used to be, sir—” James did, and nodded grimly. “—well, it’s exactly like that again. I don’t think they quite know what they’re doing, but I do think they’re working off Beckett’s notes. We’ve already started collecting potentially dangerous individuals. But there’s a pirate we have locked up, scheduled to be hanged in the next few days, and…I just think they’re saddling the wrong horse,” Groves finished, awkward.

The other three exchanged a raising of brows. Groves rushed to fill in the silence. “See, these are supposed to be hardened criminal scum, and I don’t think—look, I think they just want to make an example of her because she’s a woman. I mean, she _is_ a pirate, but—”

Jack whipped around, squinting. “You didn’t, by any _lucky_ stretch of the imagination, happen to catch her name—did you?”

“The French soldiers here call her Marie, or maybe Anne-Marie, I’m not completely sure,” said Groves. “But they’re French, of course, so she could be a Mary or a Maria or a Maryann…”

Gibbs gasped. “Anamaria?”

“Possibly?” Groves said.

“We have to get her out,” Sparrow proclaimed. Gibbs nodded vigorously.

“Oh, really?” asked Groves, eyes wide with rising hope.

“What, really?” asked James, with considerably more sarcasm.

Sparrow glared at him. “We can’t leave her in there to get hung—”

“Hanged,” James corrected.

“—hung this week, she’d kill me,” Sparrow finished, biting a nail.

James snorted. “So you actually know her, then? Or is this merely the Jack Sparrow—”

“ _Captain_ Jack Sparrow,” Sparrow interjected.

James ignored him. “—version of chivalry?”

“Anamaria is one of the best pirates I’ve sailed with,” Sparrow retorted. “We could use her for this mission.”

“Which mission?” James asked. “Retrieving your forever-missing ship?”

“After I retrieve the _Pearl_ she will no longer be missing,” Sparrow said, glaring, “but I was referring to after that.”

“And what happens ‘after that.’” James could feel his annoyance rising again.

“Well, we were looking for the Fountain of Youth, but that turned out a right disappointment,” said Gibbs.

“Not to mention the carnivorous mermaids,” Sparrow added, winking at a starry-eyed Groves.

“Carnivorous mermaids in the mythical Fountain of Youth,” James repeated dubiously.

“It’s a long story.”

“So we’ve got a new venture,” Gibbs said. “We’re looking for… The Holy Grail!”

James didn’t even try to stop his reaction. He laughed, deep and from the belly and good in a way he’d forgotten about. Sparrow pouted.

“Are you really seeking the Grail?” Groves asked breathlessly, ignoring James’ giggling.

“Of course!” Sparrow said, mock-affronted. “But first I need the _Pearl_ back, which requires a greater freedom of movement than we currently possess, which seems increasingly unlikely in the current political climate.”

“You mean the Company,” Groves said with a frown.

“Of bloody course I mean the Company,” Sparrow grumbled. “You’d think turning over the _Dutchman_ and taking out their flagship would _mean_ something to those bloodsucking fiends, but shows what you know about bloodsucking fiends…”

Gibbs looked around at them all. “So—we’re doing this?”

“Yes we are,” Sparrow agreed cheerfully. “And I even have a plan. You! Navy lad.”

“Ex-Navy,” James corrected under his breath.

“Uh, Groves,” said Groves.

“Aye, Groves,” Sparrow said. “You still chummy with those men you met in the pub, who had all those good points? I think they could use a little help moving their timetable along.”

“Ah,” James said with understanding. He caught himself smiling. “Sparrow, there are some _exceedingly_ rare times I like the way you think.”

_ • * • _

_Groves, you see, had come around to the same conclusion as I re: the crimes of the East India Trading Company. It had taken him much longer, certainly, but he hadn’t required the truth shoved in his face by an angry Elizabeth Swann, and he hadn’t responded by getting himself killed trying to play hero, so I think he can be forgiven. In any case, he took to the task of organizing a resistance force on short notice with enthusiasm and vigor, and a glint in his eye I would not hesitate to call ‘disturbing,’ having witnessed it at close range. We left him atop a soapbox, rallying the citizenry, and retreated to plan a prison break._

_I, meanwhile, was still attempting to come to terms with my fate in regards to Sparrow, and faring poorly. I had learned my lesson about listening to Calypso. All I will say is if one has never been lectured on one’s mistakes by the raw power of nature, I cannot in any way recommend the experience. That being said, finding myself forced into the mad pirate’s employ with absolutely no say in the matter was, unsurprisingly, proving a bitter pill to swallow. (Then as now, for one as lazy as Sparrow, I am continually impressed at how thoroughly he manages to drive me mad.)_

_And then there was the bigger picture: certainly I objected to the Company’s methods and would be glad to see them gone from this corner of the world, but what would take their place?_

_Sparrow, I have found, champions a utopian anarchy I know better than to believe in, but it was far more likely some other global business venture would step in to fill the space left by the EITC. It was that uncertainty, of whether or not my efforts would effect the change I wanted—or just make everything worse—that gave me most pause. I know too well the consequences of choosing wrongly._

_In any case, if I have learned anything from boyhood history lessons, it is that a vacuum of power never lasts long, and whatever fills it brings trouble in its wake. The island governors, the last stable system before the Company’s mass takeover, were no longer an option; by this point, they were either loyal Company puppets, or long since killed when their usefulness ran out._

_Like Weatherby Swann._

_It was Governor Swann, standing on the parapet of Fort Charles on a day I’ve relived and regretted more than I can bear, who said, “when pursuing the right course demands an act of piracy, piracy can be the right course.” And while I know he was trying to offer me a way out of the impossible position in which I found myself—allowing me, that day, to save face as my heart was breaking—I also know he was a wise man, and I should have honored his words sooner._

_That day, the day I came so close to hanging the notorious Captain Jack Sparrow, ranks among the absolute worst days of my life—but up until the minute the hangman pulled the lever, I possessed complete certainty about my path, my career, and my future. With that single_ thunk _of the gallows my own fall began, and any subsequent triumphs, including my victory with Jones’ heart, were attempts to regain that footing, to play catch-up with my life. Trying to make up for everything I’d lost. Time. Station. Dignity. Respect. Weatherby tried to protect me in that that entire mess, for all it ultimately did nothing. For all I had brought about my own fate._

_He was an extraordinarily kind man, Weatherby Swann; a benefactor, ally, and friend. The EITC would pay for his death. And if that required embracing a little piracy: so be it. And if it also required embracing a partnership with Sparrow, well… I was under orders from a goddess. It was out of my hands._

_ • * • _

Groves looked up from where he was slapping dust off his sleeves, and squinted in the afternoon sun.

“Oh excellent, we may be having a bit of luck. I think that ghastly storm’s finally cleared up.”

“Oh yes! It has, hasn’t it,” Sparrow agreed. He smirked broadly at James.

James, feeling victimized, ignored them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) [Cockburn Town](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cockburn_Town) is the real capital of the Turks & Caicos, located on Grand Turk Island. It is not, to my disappointment, pronounced how it's spelled. (I'm told the -ck- is silent, and it's pronounced 'Co-burn'. SIGH.)
> 
> b) Am I remembering wrong or wasn't it the fandom that decided Groves' name is Theodore? Pleased the tag system recognizes this ;)
> 
> c) So yes, fine, _technically_ this fic is post-OST as well as post-AWE. Who am I to refuse a joke about predatory mermaids?? I am weak~


	3. I Was Looking For A Job And Then I Found A Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For everyone's social-distancing-virus-lockdown-quarantine entertainment, I bring you the next chapter a week early! I hope it brings joy and helps keep you that much farther from going stir-crazy and/or wanting to murder your loved ones! [lol I still have work :(]

“I’m putting a lot of trust in you, Commodore,” Sparrow lectured from atop a hay bale. They were finally back in James’ rented barn-loft.

“I need you on the team for this,” he said. “Rescuing this woman is a very serious mission. Betray me if you like, but leave Anamaria out of it, for both our sakes. Otherwise…” Grimacing, Sparrow shook his head. “Otherwise you may not end up alive, or entirely whole, and either way I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

Leaning against a beam, James raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”

“I believe it’d be Anamaria who’d be threatening your self, in this scenario,” Gibbs supplied helpfully from his own hay bale. Sparrow nodded in manic agreement.

James looked between them, nonplussed, and decided to change the subject. “Be that as it may,” he said, “here you are, worried about me, but why should I trust you? If word gets out I’m alive, I suspect my capture will be worth more to the Company than even yours.”

“I highly doubt that,” Sparrow sniffed. “Meanwhile, you _maliciously_ ran off on me not two days ago, don’t think I’ve forgotten. At this point, how can I trust you? How can I believe a _single_ thing you—”

“For God’s sake, Sparrow, all I did was leave without informing you,” James said, exasperated. “Did I kill you in your sleep? Scuttle your boat? Did I steal from you, or set fire to your pathetic excuse for a camp? No. I didn’t. Last I heard, my actions did not need your _permission_ —”

“That’s true, you didn’t set fire to the rum,” Sparrow interrupted thoughtfully, cocking his head. 

James sighed, deflating. “I did not set fire to the rum.”

“Hm.” Sparrow made a show of considering him. “Alright Commodore, you’re in.” He grabbed James’ hand and shook it.

James looked helplessly at Gibbs, who shrugged. He turned back to Sparrow. “I was _already_ in, I thought we established I have no _choice_ in the matter—and you haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Sparrow said, faux-casual. “I need this to go smoothly more than the rest of you—and the rest of you need it to go smoothly, believe me—but I need it to go _especially_ smoothly, because if it doesn’t, I _will die_.” His eyes were wide and strange.

“Don’t listen to him, Commodore,” Gibbs leaned in to confide. “The worst she’ll do to him is slap him around a bit.”

Sparrow’s face twisted in a pout. “Last time she made specific threats to me manhood.”

“Is that all?” James sneered. “Grow up.”

Sparrow glared at him. “Keeping my bits intact is very important to me, savvy?”

“Well, that seems to be where you do most of your thinking,” James said.

“And let me guess: you don’t use yours at all,” Sparrow sneered back. “It’d do you good to get a leg over, you know. It wouldn’t even be hard. You’ve got the…eyes and the hair, and…whatnot.” He waved an encompassing hand.

“Sparrow,” James said warningly.

Sparrow was smirking now, and the slow look-over he gave James was definitely appreciative. “Not to mention the shoulders. And those calves. Oh, and _quite_ nice in the rear, as well. Mm, I bet we could get girls _crawling_ over you.”

Gibbs coughed. James viciously willed his face not to redden. He’d never been taken with his own appearance, always thought himself a duke of limbs, not… whatever Sparrow was making him out as. He burned at the pirate’s words, though whether in anger or embarrassment or some obscure flattery he couldn’t say.

“Stop _talking_ , Sparrow,” he managed, shifting uncomfortably, and resisted the urge to _do_ something to the pirate. Strangle him, probably. Slice him open. Run away and live as a hermit. Get in close and—

“So! Now then!” Gibbs broke in, a cry of sanity in the void.

When he had their attention, he settled back in his seat on the hay and leaned forward. “We’ve ordered ourselves up a distraction in the form of this mutiny the Groves lad says he can produce. Now what? What’s our plan for getting Anamaria out?”

“Rescuing beautiful damsel from the Company’s evil clutches? It won’t be easy.” Sparrow’s gaze turned distant.

James seized on the change of topic. “It’s unfortunate the Company has kept such a strong hold in the region after Beckett’s death.”

“Like that monster in the old stories,” said Sparrow. “Cut off one head, another two grow back.”

“The hydra!” Gibbs gasped. They both turned to look at him.

“Yes Gibbs, thank you Gibbs,” Sparrow sighed. He gave James an expressive eyeroll behind Gibbs’ back.

James was almost overtaken by a laugh; he barely stopped himself in time. The man was _terrible_ , but sharing a joke with Sparrow felt… oddly nice. Unbalanced, James glowered and resolved to pretend it hadn’t happened.

“Well then,” Sparrow said, once the silence had stretched to include the buzzing of evening insects and other soft sounds from outside, “as we are thankfully not dealing with a _literal_ hydra, I may have a plan.” He leaned in, alight with a mad flame of creation. “We’re going to need some supplies. Chiefly, a weasel, a petticoat, and some sort of boiled sweet.”

“…Must we?” asked James. “This is—essentially—still a _French_ fort we’re dealing with.” He had, in the course of his naval career, run afoul of several French-owned forts, and had yet to be impressed.

“All the more reason,” Sparrow warned. “Do not underestimate the French, especially the women. Learned that the hard way.”

“Aye, right perceived masters of their own little universes, they are,” Gibbs added.

“Well said, my good man,” Sparrow said sagely, twiddling his moustache. James rolled his eyes.

“So,” said Gibbs, “does it need to be any type of boiled sweet in particular?”

He cleared his throat. “Could we have a plan that _doesn’t_ rely on live animals and crossdressing?”

Sparrow glared. “You know, Commodore, I believe I underestimated how much fun you are _not_.”

“Well, he may have a point, Captain,” said Gibbs. “Say we can’t find ourselves a weasel?"

“Fine!” Sparrow snapped. “Fine! We’ll just stroll into the fort in broad daylight, cut down anyone we see, pick the lock on Anamaria’s cell, and all walk right back out, happy?”

“Er—” said Gibbs.

“Better than the weasel,” said James.

“I bet you’d like my weasel,” Sparrow leered.

“ _Boys_ ,” said Gibbs, who’d had enough.

_ • * • _

Dawn broke damp and foggy over the town. Crouching in mud in a misty side-street across from the fort, James, Gibbs, and Sparrow waited for Groves’ signal.

To James’ great relief, whatever Sparrow had been planning for the weasel had been ditched in favor of simple, classic standbys such as stealth, distraction, and lockpickery—and, if necessary, half-pin barrel hinges and knocking a few guards over the head.

It wasn’t long before yelling and commotion ensued from the direction of the market square, and not long after that, soldiers began pouring from the fort gates, ready to crush the disturbance.

“Right on time,” Sparrow muttered absently, eyes twitching across the road. “Good old Groves.”

James couldn’t help but agree. That was the thing about Teddy Groves: obnoxiously chipper as he was, he was also a man you could reliably rest a plan on, and good to have in a pinch.

They darted across to the gates of the fort, senses on high alert.

“Doesn’t appear to be anybody in there,” Gibbs whispered, and James frowned.

“This is too easy.” Uprising in the streets or not, the fort shouldn’t have been _empty_. With the gates still swinging open, there ought to have been some residual guard, at least. “Gibbs, go around to the side gate to the east, we need to find out if the courtyard’s clear.”

Gibbs blatantly looked to Sparrow’s confirming nod before moving an inch, but at least he went.

Gibbs’ frame had just disappeared into the fog when Sparrow froze. “Shhh!” he hissed at James.

“I didn’t say anything,” James hissed back.

“No, shh-shh-shh—notice that?” Sparrow cocked his head, and James heard it: the furious clamor of a bell over the muffled din.

James frowned and looked up. “That sounds like a fire bell.” He sniffed, trying to detect smoke amongst the damp reek of the street. As he listened, a second clanging joined the first. “And another.”

“Think this little revolution managed to set something on fire?” Sparrow flashed an eager grin. “Possibly several somethings?”

“That seems a safe assumption,” James replied, considering. “If they have, we should see additional men coming through this gate in the next few minutes, and depending where the fires are, we have perhaps an hour at most to make our move before those reinforcements return and come across our position. I’d prefer we were in and out before they come back—I have no desire to play the hero against Company forces, and with luck, they won’t think to look for us until they’ve finished sweeping the lower town.”

James came out of his musing to find Sparrow subjecting him to an odd, approving look.

“What’s that for?” James asked.

“What?” Sparrow said with a start. “Who? Me? I wasn’t doing anything.”

James stared him down. Sparrow caved a moment later, with a theatrical grimace. “Look, I was just taking a teensy weensy moment to appreciate the myriad ways in which you are not William Turner.”

“Thank Heaven for small mercies,” said James, amused. Then, remembering gossip on the _Dutchman_ , he added, “Which one?”

“Christ, either of them,” Sparrow said immediately, wrinkling his nose, and James couldn’t help his snort of laughter. “Much as I loved sailing with Bootstrap, that man had a terribly stupid honest streak—or maybe a terribly honest stupid streak—that was inconvenient at the best of times.”

“Runs in the family, I see,” said James, raising an eyebrow, and Sparrow snickered.

He scarcely had time to realize the strangeness of having a pleasant moment with _Jack Sparrow_ before Sparrow ruined it by adding, “That and a few other things, love,” with a grin designed to test James’ sanity.

James didn’t want to know what he meant by that. Luckily he was saved from having to think about it when, as predicted, men came spilling past them armed with buckets, heading in the direction of the plume of smoke just making itself visible above the rooftops. James and Sparrow pressed against the wall, and, to their luck, no one looked back and saw them.

The soldiers were barely out of sight when Sparrow gasped, “Gibbs!” and dashed off through the still-open gate, James at his heels.

They found Gibbs peering into the empty courtyard from the east gate, confused and none the worse for wear.

“Fire bell,” Sparrow told him before Gibbs could open his mouth, and Gibbs’s face cleared.

“So,” he asked, “now what?”

_ • * • _

Following Groves’ sketch of the fort layout was simple enough. James kept expecting to see _people_ : a fully staffed fort should have had enough troops and guards to pose a challenge as they attempted to sneak down narrow stone corridors unseen—even discounting the detachments they’d watched leave.

That being said, everywhere they’d yet infiltrated remained strangely, unsettlingly empty. So far they had encountered only a single pair of patrolling guards, their marching echoing through the silent hallways. They were audible far in advance, and easily avoided. It set James’ nerves on edge. He knew he ought not to complain, but it shouldn’t be this simple.

In hindsight it was inevitable that Sparrow would find a way to ruin their good fortune—specifically, he came to a sudden, echoing halt at the junction of two corridors.

“What are you doing? We can’t stop here!” James hissed, still on edge for any sign of approaching guards.

“You two go on ahead, I just need to take a _quiiick_ look in the office here, won’t be a minute,” Sparrow called over his shoulder as he veered down the wrong hallway, towards what Groves’ map had indicated was the fort’s main office.

“What?” said Gibbs. “Now?!”

“What?” said James. “No!”

“What?” said Sparrow. “I won’t be a minute.”

“Does it have to be right _now_?” Gibbs asked desperately.

“ _Sparrow_ ,” said James with warning.

“Go get Ana out, I’ll catch up,” Sparrow said, and was gone.

“We don’t have time for this,” Gibbs groaned, wringing his hands as he stared after him. “Now what do we—”

James made a split-second decision. “Gibbs,” he said in his best Commanding Officer Voice, and Gibbs snapped to attention so fast it must have been unconscious. “Go find Anamaria. You remember the route. Try the lower level first, that’s where Groves said the main cellblock was, that’s where they should be keeping her. I’ll keep an eye on Sparrow.”

Gibbs nodded, and grabbed James’ sleeve. “Mind you don’t let him wander off again, now.”

“I’ll do my best,” James said, “but we both know what my chances are. Go, we’ll find you.”

“Aye,” Gibbs conceded, and scuttled off with determination.

_ • * • _

“So all your concern for Anamaria was just an excuse to get into this office, I see,” James drawled from the doorway, watching Sparrow rifle through a desk drawer.

“You wound me, Commodore,” Sparrow said cheerfully, not looking up. “Of course I’m getting Anamaria out. I happen to be multitasking.”

“Actually, I believe Gibbs is the one currently freeing Anamaria,” James pointed out. He walked over to lean a hip against the desk, arms crossed.

“Under my orders.” Sparrow shot James a hurt look.

“Hmm, no, I gave him that order, you’ll find.”

“But rescuing her was my idea,” Sparrow tried.

“And I believe we were just in the middle of debating your motives for that,” James said. He paused and turned towards Sparrow. “Now that I think about it, it was Groves who originally brought it up, wasn’t it?”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be the architect,” Sparrow pouted, turning back to the papers on the desk. “Can’t judge a plan ‘til the eggs are covered. Books have hatched. Eggs are in their baskets and all’s right with the—look, she gets freed either way, no skin off my neck. Just save me any paperwork you find, alright?”

James couldn’t help it; he smirked at his small, stupid victory. “It would help if you told me what you’re looking for,” he said, changing tack. “I _am_ familiar with both Company paperwork and the operations of a naval fort, after all.”

All of Sparrow’s fluid motion came to a halt. “He is, isn’t he,” he murmured, eyes fixed on nothing. “That’s true, he would be,” he said, turning to agree with himself.

To James, he said, “Alright, I need anything that looks like a shipping manifest or transfer of property within the last four months, most likely staying within Company possession. If they’ve marked it exempt from tariffs, more the better.”

James wasn’t sure when his local madman had become so familiar with Company administrative protocols, but having specific search criteria cheered him enough to put that aside for later worry.

“Indeed,” he said, bending over to leaf through stacks of paper. “And am I looking for something entering or leaving the islands, or property movements within the islands themselves?”

“Either exiting or staying in the Caribbean,” Sparrow replied. “And if you spot anything promising, see if you can find papers for that cargo’s next stop, too.”

“Yes, of course,” James said absently, already getting lost in the familiar minutia of reports and files. “Oh, and Sparrow?” he said, looking up. “Try to grab—”

James was closer to the door, so he heard the footsteps.

“Someone’s coming!” he hissed to Sparrow.

“Hide!” Sparrow hissed back, shoving a pile of parchments at James and pointing the door, which conveniently opened into the room.

James fit himself between the open door and the wall, tucking the rolled papers in his belt. He expected Sparrow to duck behind the desk, or squeeze underneath, or hell, fit himself into a cabinet, or even dangle out the window—at this point, James had certain expectations of the infamous Jack Sparrow.

But the pirate just crouched by the desk, head perfectly visible, as Company troops thundered past the doorway. There was just barely time for a breath of relief in the silence before suddenly, more footsteps, and several soldiers burst into the room. James froze behind the door. Sparrow, however, swayed up and smiled a disingenuous smile, hands raised in placating flutters.

“I see you lot have finally decided to show up. Well, you’ve caught me. I assume you want to introduce me to whoever’s in charge of this establishment? Go on, take me to your leader.”

The soldiers exchanged clueless looks, but duly clapped him in irons and started leading him out. Sparrow caught James’ eye through the doorjamb, where James was still out of sight, pressed tight against the wall.

‘ _Find Gibbs_ ,’ he mouthed. ‘ _Save me._ ’

_ • * • _

One of the guards remained in the doorway after the other two frog-marched Sparrow out, but it was the work of a moment for James to hit him with the door, and hit him again so he stayed down. He surveyed his handiwork, brushed off his knuckles, and went to find Gibbs.

Gibbs wasn’t difficult to find, coming up the passage from the dungeons, accompanied by someone James could only assume was Anamaria. James wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting of her, Sparrow and Gibbs’ (and Groves’) damsel in distress, but it hadn’t been this; the dark skinned woman in simple ragged men’s clothes, flowing hair under a bandanna, hard set eyes keeping watch down the corridor. This woman looked like any other pirate, and moved like she could fight, and kill. James suddenly understood why Sparrow feared for his manhood around her.

“Gibbs,” James nodded at him. “And you must be Anamaria.” He watched her look him over, gaze suspicious and unimpressed.

“Commodore!” Gibbs said, looking past him. “What happened to Jack?”

“Captured. Surrendered himself as a _completely unnecessary_ distraction,” said James. “I don’t know why I expected anything else.”

Anamaria stared him down. James was uncomfortably reminded of one of his stricter governesses. “Really.”

“Yes, really,” James frowned, trying to shake the feeling that he was about to get a ruler to the knuckles.

She rolled her eyes, breaking the spell. “Typical.”

“I assure you, I did try,” James added to Gibbs. “Against all better sense.”

“I believe you,” Gibbs sighed back. “Well, we best go get him, then.”

“Must we?” James asked, deadpan and only half joking. “Again?”

“We can’t just leave him here!” Gibbs gasped. “Not with the Company!”

“I don’t know,” Anamaria said, nodding at James, amused. “This one might have a point.”

James replied with a bow and small fraction of smile. He was beginning to like her.

“Well, _I’m_ going to find Jack,” Gibbs huffed. “Commodore, get Anamaria out of here.”

Tempting, but— “No, I know where he’ll have been taken,” sighed James from the bottom of his soul. “It’ll be faster if I fetch him. You take the lady, get out of here.”

“Who’re you calling lady?” Anamaria asked, eyeing him.

“Apologies, miss,” James said with the full force of his sarcasm, because she looked like she could handle it. She sneered back, confirming his theory. To Gibbs, he said, “Go now, before relief arrives for the guards.”

Suddenly intense, Gibbs gave James a glare that, for all the man’s soft roundness, managed to communicate a legitimate threat. James was briefly impressed.

“I expect _both_ of you to be meeting us outside, now.” He poked a finger at James’ chest. “Give this to Jack,” he said, pressing a small leather packet into James’ hand. “Don’t make me regret it.”

James flipped open a corner of the package. Ah, lockpicks. “I’m not looking to wake up to a wave of vengeful crabs, don’t worry.” He packed the kit away in his jacket. “Don’t ask,” he added with a sideways glance at Anamaria. She stared him down.

“So you really weren’t lying about the Commodore,” he heard her say as he left. “Why the _fuck_ —”

Gibbs huffed a wry laugh, but James was around the corner and down the stairs before he could hear the rest of the conversation.

_ • * • _

Sparrow, leaning against the cell wall, raised his head when James ducked in. “Ah! it’s you,” he said, smile full of ice. “We weren’t sure we’d see you again. Come to gloat, have you?”

James checked the exits for activity. “What are you driveling about?”

“This must be a dream come true for you, _Commodore_ ,” said Sparrow, his voice sharp from where he lounged. “All you have to do is sit back, and I’ll be neatly sent to those gallows you were so fond of. Don’t even have to lift a finger. Everything you ever wanted, right?”

It was true, it _had_ been everything he’d wanted, once. If only his life were still so simple. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, _Sparrow_ , but I don’t do that anymore,” James snapped. He dug about for the lock kit and handed it to the pirate. “Here, be quick, the guard will be along any minute.”

Sparrow immediately lit up. “Cheers, mate, I take it all back.” He started in on the lock, flashing a smirk back up at James. “Still, bet that hurt just now, giving me this.”

“Shut up,” James said, turning away to check the doorway again.

The lock clicked open as the new guard came around the corner, just in time to see James pulling open the cell door.

“Norrington?!” the guard cried, shocked, angry. “You pirate-loving traitor!” He leveled the bayonet of his gun at them.

James had thought it harrowing to be recognized by Groves, but this, now, was far worse. He tried to place the man’s face but couldn’t. Had this been one of his men when he’d been Admiral? When he’d been Commodore? Sparrow shot James a questioning look, and James shook his head—quick, frustrated, helpless—in reply.

“Don’t move!” the guard yelled, looking nervously between the two of them.

James set his teeth. Dodging the bayonet, he charged the guard and delivered him a clip to the jaw with the full force of his anger: at Sparrow, at himself, at his _past_ ; anger that the pirate always managed to stir in him. The guard went down and didn’t move.

“Nice one,” Sparrow said brightly. He stepped, swaying, out of the cell and over the senseless body. “Thank Gibbs for me,” he added, with a waggle of the lockpicks.

James ignored him, extracting the guard’s sword from his belt and scouting around the next corridor. A part of his mind screamed that he’d just freed Jack Sparrow from a jail cell, and any moment now Hell would freeze over and the heavens would start spitting fire. He tried to ignore that as well.

‘ _Shut it_ ,’ he told himself. ‘ _This is your life now. Deal with it_.’

He thought of Calypso’s admonition when he’d woken up in the middle of the ocean. Remember your choices, she had said. Honor them. It had sounded so straightforward at the time. The command to remember was proving moot, James thought. Absolutely everyone knew what he’d done and who he’d been, apparently, and they weren’t going to let him forget.

Honoring those choices, on the other hand, was another matter entirely; just as apparently, no one was going to bother. James still wasn’t sure he could, himself. He was the one who had to live with the weight of his past decisions. His failures. The laws he’d pinned his principles on and used in their place, the duties he’d abandoned, the scores of people he’d killed, whether by his own hand, negligence, or the noose: his burdens to bear.

As always, they overwhelmed his scattered triumphs, the evidence that his judgment could be sound, the things he worked for, good. Freeing Elizabeth and her crew from the Dutchman. Protecting the innocent. Lending aid to those in need. Bringing true villains to justice—not the Sparrows and Turners of the sea, but the Barbossas and worse, pirates who killed and hurt merely because they could. That hadn’t been a distinction that used to bother him, but he was in a different position to judge, now.

It was a Sisyphean battle to remember that good alongside the sorrows and regrets. But his history, favorable and otherwise, was all he had to his name these days—save the clothes on his back, a sense of honor that just wouldn’t quit, and a grudging responsibility to Jack Sparrow, of all people.

He had to take it, all of it. The last time James tried to forget himself, after his ego and stubbornness killed a shipful of good men, after he relinquished his post and his identity with it—well. Crawling into the bottle in Tortuga, joining Sparrow’s crew, and giving Beckett that blasted heart had all made perfect sense at the time, but were, in retrospect, not his best ideas. And now Calypso had granted him this strange parody of a fresh start, where his past haunted him at every step and somehow he was supposed to _let_ it. Perhaps this really was Hell.

 _Fine_. No way out but through. At the very least it would all be easier, James thought grimly, if everyone would just _stop_ calling him—

“ _Commodore_ ,” Sparrow said, loud like he’d been repeating himself, and James stumbled in surprise.

“Ah! There you are,” the pirate continued. “Back with us now? Lost you for a minute and now you’re all peaky.” If James didn’t know better, he’d think Sparrow almost looked concerned.

“I’m fine,” James said, hauling his thoughts firmly to order, back to the present. Focus on the job.

Sparrow gave him a look like he wasn’t buying it, but had chosen to let it pass. “Where is Gibbs, anyway?” he asked instead.

“With Anamaria,” James replied, as the weight of his sins settled to background noise. “Outside, if they have any sense. Come on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Let me state for the record that James dislikes Will far more than I personally do (for obvious reasons)! But let's be real: he's cute and all, but Will Turner isn't exactly the sharpest sword in the smithy, is he? ;)
> 
> \- And now we have Anamaria! Full disclosure, I love her, but also can we all frickin’ recognize our glorious SF/F franchise queen Zoe Saldana?? Do we all remember she was in PotC?? I just needed to acknowledge her criminally tiny role in CotBP from before she was in _all the things ever_ — (—cough—Avatar/Star Trek/the MCU—cough—)  
> FUN FACT: [according to Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zoe_Saldana#cite_note-2), as of 2019, Zoe Saldana is the second highest-grossing film actress of all time(!!!)
> 
> \- ~~FUN~~ OBSCURE FACT: in all this paperwork James and Jack are poring through, there wouldn't have been any _forms_ —that is, any multi-produced sheets of questions or prompts with blanks to fill in the answers. You know, forms. [Turns out,](https://books.google.com/books?id=e24VAAAAQAAJ&pg=PA114#v=onepage&q&f=false) those [were invented](http://sydneypadua.com/2dgoggles/lovelace-and-babbage-vs-the-economy-part-3/) by [Charles Babbage](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Babbage), who you may know from designing (and constantly failing to build) the first computer, in the 1800's! (What a [wacky,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Babbage#Public_nuisances) [wacky](https://daveshields.net/2009/03/24/on-technology-charles-babbage-and-the-invention-of-the-cowcatcher/) guy.) I hope this information serves you well, [you're welcome](http://sydneypadua.com/2dgoggles/lovelace-the-origin-2/). :)


	4. If You Came Here On Your Own You'd Be Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS IS SO LATE!! Buuuut the next one will be EVEN LATER as i didn't exactly account for present circumstances when estimating how much writing i could get done a month lol >__<  
> (also my work schedule is abt to get much worse WHEEE)
> 
> NOTE: Content Warning for (very minor!) reference to effects of a bad disease on a population, sorry!! I wrote that bit aaaages ago and also in my defense there were lots of epidemics going around back in the day and I wanted to acknowledge that :|
> 
> (that being said, if that's something you want to avoid or want more details abt before reading, feel free to message me!)
> 
> ETA: so I was very concerned about the minor disease reference but failed to predict the state of many american cities (including my own) this weekend, so let me add this chapter also contains some Rioting

“So what I don’t get, Commodore, is why it was _you_ what volunteered to get me out,” Sparrow said as they emerged out a side door and, blinking, stepped into the sun.

The corridors had remained disconcertingly empty. It was disgraceful. James could run a fort better than this. He _had_ run a fort better than this. Obviously he had no grounds for complaint, as the shoddy staffing and lax security were ideal for their purposes, but it bothered him nonetheless.

“Why did you protect me in the office?” James countered, pulled out of his musing.

“...and I _know_ you volunteered, because I was completely and unequivocally expecting Gibbs,” Sparrow continued, as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Because you protected me in the office, my question stands.”

Sparrow turned and met his eyes. “I’m taking a gamble on you being about what you say you’re about these days, that’s why.” He turned to hop over a puddle. “Besides,” he added, grinning over his shoulder, “I wouldn’t want to lose my jar of dirt.”

“Why on Earth do you keep calling me that?” James griped, following him.

“Means Calypso says I’m going to need you at some point.,” said Sparrow, exasperated. “We went over this already, keep up.”

James huffed and caught Sparrow smirking at him.

“The _real_ question is what I learned from getting captured,” added Sparrow.

James shot him a narrow look. “Do you plan to tell me?”

Sparrow turned to reply and froze, eyes flicking over James’ shoulder. He grabbed James’ sleeve. “Commodore—”

“Halt!” came a shout from behind them.

“Apparently we have company,” Sparrow said.

“So I noticed,” said James. He turned outward, drawing his sword, and felt Sparrow complete the action, his back pressed against James’.

Two guards stood in the mouth of the narrow side-alley, blocking access to the main courtyard.

“Charge ‘em,” Sparrow said over his shoulder.

“My thoughts exactly,” James replied, and they sprung into action.

Sparrow threw one of the guards off balance with a wild sweep of his sword, already spinning away to block the blow of the other as James stepped in to press advantage against the first. The second guard tried again, slashing at them—but Sparrow stuck out a well-timed foot and the man went flying. As he fell, the pirate helpfully shoved him onto his companion, ruining the first guard’s defense and allowing James to rush in and render him unconscious with a sharp tap of sword pommel to the temple.

The second guard, having untangled himself from his fallen companion, got to his feet and lunged. James and Sparrow raised their swords at the same time. Two blades clanged against the ill-advised down-sweep. James despaired, he really did. 

Sparrow, next to him, caught his eye and tilted his head. A rain barrel, no more than half full, sat under the eaves of the nearest building. James had an idea—and hoped Sparrow’s was similar.

With the combined pressure of the crossed swords, they forced the guard to stumble backwards until he tripped on the edge of the scant cobbles, as James had hoped, and landed arse-first in barrel water. The man struggled, legs kicking at air, but couldn’t get out.

“Couldn’t have done better if we tried, Commodore,” Sparrow said with obvious wonder, and James, for once, knew exactly how he felt. Shocking for it to have been so natural, fighting alongside a pirate—alongside _Jack Sparrow_ —

They turned at the sudden sound of footsteps to see another guard rushing across the yard at them, sword drawn. James raised his own sword to parry the incoming thrust. The guard circled, James mirroring him, each looking for an opening to strike.

“Rooting for you, mate!” Sparrow called out, and James’ immediate reaction was an annoyed, distracted _you’d better be_ , before the phrase itself sunk in.

 _You know,_ James thought, bemused, _this may be the first time he actually means it._

A feint and a sudden lunge, and the guard was down, disarmed. James turned to chide Sparrow for leaving him the dirty work, but he was gone—and James was alone in the courtyard with only the fallen guards for company.

_ • * • _

“Sparrow?” James hissed as loud as he dared. “Sparrow!”

He left the courtyard behind, exiting through the main gate back onto the sand-and-cobble streets. Sparrow was still nowhere to be found. Worry starting to twist his stomach (no, not worry, _frustration_ ), James rounded a corner and ran into a familiar face—but not the one he sought.

“You! I have questions,” said Anamaria, stalking over. Before he could react, James found himself pinned against the nearest wall with a monstrous knife at his throat. He looked to Gibbs, who shrugged.

“So!” she demanded. “What’s Commodore Norrington, famous pirate hunter, doing working with Jack Sparrow? What’s your game? How can we trust you after you’ve sent so many to the gallows? Hm? Start talking.”

“It’s a long story,” James said around the knife.

“Make it a short story,” Anamaria suggested.

“Remove the knife first.”

“Fine.” She released him, but kept the blade firmly pointed at his ribs. “Go.”

James sighed. He hoped he sounded steadier than he felt. “After I lost everything, thanks to you lot—”

“The hurricane,” Gibbs leaned in to clarify, and James shot him a look.

Anamaria whistled, eyes flicking between them. “Fu-u-uck.”

“Indeed,” James said dryly. “After that… series of events, I was, let’s see—” he ticked off on his fingers, “set adrift from the Navy, washed up in Tortuga, joined Sparrow’s crew to get _away_ from Tortuga, then betrayed him to the East India Trading Company and joined their ranks. In the midst of realizing the error of my ways, I was killed—”

“Killed,” Anamaria echoed, eyebrows disappearing into her bandanna.

“Yes, until just this last week,” he continued blithely, pushing down a small wave of hysteria, “when I woke up and found I’d been resurrected by a heathen goddess. And now, apparently, I am bound by oath to assist Sparrow in whatever madness he’s gotten himself into this time!”

She glared and pressed the knife point closer. “You shitting me, Navy man?”

“Would that I were,” James grimaced, sucking in his stomach. The knife was uncomfortable, but recounting past failures to justify his present existence was proving far worse for his peace of mind.

“Hell of a story,” she said, squinting. “Under oath to one of the old gods, you say?”

“Indeed.”

She studied him for a long minute. James tried to breathe carefully, very conscious of the sharp pressure against his side.

“Right,” she finally said. “Wouldn’t be the craziest thing to happen on these waters. I’m in a good mood, I’ll believe you. But know this: I am watching you. Step out of line even _once_ , I will personally cut your throat.”

“Duly noted,” James said. “Though you may have to join the queue.”

“Nah. Whatever Jack says, he’d never go through with it. Me? I will, without hesitation.” She stared him down without blinking.

“I believe you,” James said sincerely.

“Good.”

“Might I ask you, then, to consider putting away the knife?”

“Fine…” Anamaria rolled her eyes and backed away, taking the blade with her.

James took a deep breath and a step away from the wall, and glared at Gibbs. “Your interference would not have gone amiss.”

“Ana’s smart and reasonable,” Gibbs said cheerfully. “I figured I’d let you tell your own story.”

“Ha! Sweet talk is cheap,” said Anamaria, elbowing him. “It was a good thing you showed up when you did, I was almost to the point of stuffing straw up my shirt and telling them I was _with child_.”

“Right!” laughed Gibbs. “Just like that time in Cuba.”

She snickered. “Yeah, but with less spiders, thank God. Ugh!”

“Anamaria!”

Sparrow had materialized suddenly from around the corner, and in an alarming first, James found himself relieved to see him. “Lovely to see you, darling.” He stepped close for an embrace.

“Jack!” Anamaria mimicked his tone, her smile wide and bright, and raised a hand to slap him.

Sparrow’s face fell dramatically. He flinched backwards, stumbling in his haste. She stepped forward—and pinched him on the cheek instead. It looked like it hurt.

Rubbing his face, Sparrow retreated with a grimace. Anamaria smiled beatifically. Gibbs looked like he wanted to laugh, but was trying to be supportive.

“Where were you?” James asked Sparrow, far less severe than he’d intended; the frustration and annoyance he still felt clashed with relief and laughter and came away the loser.

“Reconnaissance, love.” He flashed a smug golden grin. “You can thank me later.”

“What’ve we found out?” asked Gibbs.

“Well,” said Sparrow, “here’s the rub, as far as I can tell: many things are on fire, there’s a bloody lot of soldiers about, but they _appear_ to be dealing with the large riot I assume your friend what’s-his-face produced,” he nodded at James.

“Can we get through, do you think?” asked Anamaria.

“Why get through,” Sparrow drawled, “when you can go around?”

“Fine,” she snapped, clearly out of patience. James sympathized. “Can we get _around_?”

The smug grin was back, and this time it reached his eyes. “I thought you’d never ask.”

_ • * • _

In daylight, with the morning fog burned away, Cockburn Town was much smaller than James initially thought. Not two streets away, he received a partial answer, at least, to the riddle of the empty fort: Company men had set up a blockade to keep the rioting—audible now, and close—away from the fort gates. As long as the fighting remained at the blockade, circumventing it should still be possible.

The soldiers themselves proved easy to avoid. The riot was far less predictable. The clamor and intermittent crack of gunfire ranged closer and farther, until he turned a wrong corner and suddenly James was swallowed in a cloud of dust and smoke, noise and violence. Alone in the commotion, the world narrowed to ten feet around him. Nothing existed but shouting and the press of people, smoke from torches and burning debris in the street, the crack of firearms, dust kicked up in the scuffling—it was all he could do to draw his sword, keep his footing, and avoid getting stabbed in someone else’s fight.

He couldn’t find Sparrow or the others, couldn't find the edge of clear air again; he just wanted _out_. James prided himself on keeping his head in battle, but this was different, sudden, the shockwave of violent chaos still reverberating.

Something whistled by his ear and a window behind him exploded in a shower of glass, and that was it, James needed to move, needed to get out of there, _now_. Before he could find his bearings, someone was grabbing at his arm, trying to drag him in—James pivoted, nerves alight, trying to twist away—and then he heard Jack Sparrow’s voice in his ear.

“Commodore!”

Something in James relaxed immediately, and he let Sparrow pull him out of the fray. The writhing crowd thinned as they navigated side streets, until Sparrow turned them down a blessedly quiet alley and thank God, there was no one there except Gibbs and Anamaria.

Sparrow sat back, face unreadable, as they looked James over—at his obvious dishevelment under the fresh layer of dust, the bruise he was probably developing from the elbow he took to the cheek—and Gibbs’ brow furrowed with what looked like concern.

Anamaria just smirked at him. “Have fun?” she asked. James glared at her, and she laughed.

_ • * • _

Several blocks away, a knot in the distance resolved itself into a group of people moving inexorably down the street in their direction. James tensed, hand going to his sword—but something about their movements was off: too calm for fighting, too chaotic for soldiers.

As the group drew nearer, James let out a small laugh. He could see now that it was Groves, striding along in conversation with what looked like at least ten civilians of varying colors. James watched them peel off in small groups, departing with purpose. Groves dispensed instruction to the last few, bidding them a back-slapping farewell, before he looked up and noticed their approach.

“Oh,” cried Groves, “excellent, you made it!”

Anamaria whirled on Sparrow. “What, more Navy? Ay, loco! What were you thinking?!”

He ignored her. “Young Groves!” Sparrow called out, full of manic cheer. “Nice work. Good use of an angry mob, I’m proud of you. Anamaria, this is Groves,” he gestured between them. “You can thank him for the lovely little revolution going on around us. Groves, this is Anamaria, I understand you’ve met.”

“W-well, not—not _actually_ ,” stammered Groves, suddenly awkward, “but—”

Anamaria looked unimpressed. “You did all this?”

“Er, I had help?” he tried.

She tilted her head and raised an inscrutable eyebrow. Groves quailed.

James admired her style, but they faced more pressing concerns. “We can’t stay here.”

“Yes, lovely as it is to all be introduced, we’ve got to continue with the getting out of here,” said Sparrow. His hands twisted into shooing motions. “Go on then, off you go.”

“After you,” James said, eyeing him. If Sparrow tried to disappear again, he would have to go through James first.

_ • * • _

After James was certain Sparrow was occupied telling Gibbs and Anamaria something outrageous, and therefore it might be safe to take his eye off him for a moment (truly, Anamaria was looking to be a powerful asset, if she remained cooperative), he pulled Groves aside.

“How many men does the Company have on the island?” James asked. “I’ve seen a number of detachments in the streets, but the fort was nearly deserted.”

“Ah,” Groves winced. “Yes. Well. There are probably several reasons for that—one being the fires we set, of course, and the fact they focused their efforts on maintaining the perimeter between the main rioting and the fort rather than keeping a large complement at the fort itself—”

“But?” Sparrow butted in.

Groves startled. “What?”

“Sounded like there was going to be a ‘but’ in there,” said Sparrow.

“Well, yes,” said Groves. He suddenly looked much older. “I was going to say there’s far less of us—them—than we started with. We’ve lost almost a third of our men here to fever over the last few months.”

“Aye lad, that’s rough.” Gibbs had drifted over, Anamaria close behind.

Pensive silence reigned as they picked their way over puddles and now rubble, shouting and clamor muted but present in background.

“Come to think of it,” Groves added after the silence grew awkward, “that may have been another reason we got such turnout, why people were so ready to revolt…”

“What do you mean?” James asked.

“Shipments,” said Sparrow abruptly. Everyone turned to look at him.

“Shipments, right? Vital supplies, medicines, all owned by the Company, setting the prices as they like— And then those precious shipments getting delayed by all the pesky docking protocols and endless paperwork, tied up in all those port tariffs and berthing fees—hard to run a colony that way, isn’t it? And for all that the salt business here is making them rich, something tells me this particular outpost of the East India Trading Company isn’t _quite important enough_ to merit the bigger, faster ships with the direct routes, am I right?” He looked at Groves.

“Yes,” Groves fawned, starry-eyed. “Yes, that’s it exactly—”

Anamaria snorted and turned to Gibbs. “You weren’t kidding about the Navy boy’s crush.”

James frowned. Surely Groves didn’t actually— _did he_? James turned his glare to where Groves was still hanging off Sparrow’s every word, obviously enraptured by the pirate’s fey grin, the way his hands fluttered in the air like his namesake.

James caught Anamaria watching him with a raised eyebrow, and realized he was grinding his teeth. He consciously relaxed his jaw, tried to smooth his face, averted his gaze. He heard her snort beside him.

He scrambled for a change of subject. “What’s our plan for supplies?” he asked, loud enough to interrupt. “We’re not staying on this island, and we need provisions to sail.”

“Oh, I arranged supplies for you,” Groves said helpfully. “At a site around the north of the island, by the mouth of the inlet. You can’t miss it.”

“You’re not coming with?” Gibbs asked.

“I should stay here, help in the aftermath…” demurred Groves.

“Feign ignorance to your superiors?” added James.

Groves winced. “Well—”

“They don’t need you,” Sparrow said supportively, “but more importantly, you don’t need them. Seems as good a time as any to try something different, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” He sounded curious.

“Couldn’t be better, believe me,” Sparrow reassured him. “Join my crew, sail with Captain Jack Sparrow, and know you’re making the right choices from here on out, what say you?”

James snorted.

“That’s very kind of you,” said Groves happily. It wasn’t, James noted, an actual answer.

He raised an eyebrow. “Diverting Company supplies, I take it?”

Groves grinned back. “They certainly won’t be missed, considering today’s events.”

“Hard to find much of anything that’s not ‘Company supplies’ these days,” Gibbs muttered, almost to himself.

James shot him a curious look, but the other pirates were nodding with resignation and even Groves looked in worn agreement. James frowned. When had— _Oh right,_ a small familiar voice echoed. _You were dead._

_ • * • _

“So where’s the boat?” Anamaria asked.

“Yes, right. Commodore,” Sparrow rounded on him, “where’d you leave your boat?”

“What happened to _your_ boat?” James asked suspiciously.

“Lost cause,” Sparrow waved him off. “Victim of the storm and the reefs.”

“By the way,” Gibbs said, “how _did_ you make it through the reefs here without knowing about them, Commodore?”

“I suspect Calypso had a hand in that,” said James. “Doesn’t anyone else have a boat?”

“Long gone,” Anamaria said darkly. “They took my ship when they grabbed me off the Caicos and I don’t know what they did to it.” Obviously the wound was still fresh.

“I caught a ride on a salt ship,” offered Gibbs.

“I came over with the rest of the Company on the _Valiant_ ,” said Groves. “It’s in the harbor—we’re not going to try to steal it, are we?”

“Tempting, but no.” Sparrow whirled around. “Commodore? All down to you now. Where’d you park it?”

“I’d rather have a go at the _Valiant_ ,” James said, “because we’re not all going to fit.”

Sparrow looked thoughtful. “How many guns is the _Valiant_ , Groves?”

Groves squinted. “42?”

“Ah. No crewing _that_ with five,” said Sparrow, unconsciously echoing James’ thoughts. “Anyone else?”

“Can’t we take another boat?” asked Anamaria.

“Hm,” said Sparrow. “Think we can get to the harbor, Groves?”

“Probably not,” Groves replied. “The harbor’s been heavily guarded since the rioting began.”

Sparrow pointed a thumb at Groves. “I like him, he’s useful.”

Groves lit up with the praise. James felt his eyes narrow. Gibbs, oblivious, turned to him. “Sounds like your boat is best, then.”

“Fine,” huffed James, “but if we don’t all fit in mine, I vote we leave you behind, Sparrow.”

Anamaria snorted. “I second that.”

_ • * • _

It took some doing to find his boat again, skirting down the beach in the direction James approximated. At least the island was small. If all else failed, it wouldn't take long to circle it completely, provided they could avoid capture.

To James’ relief, they soon rounded a spit and suddenly, there it was. Or rather—a boat was there, but it couldn’t be _his_ , James thought. His boat had been smaller, with only the mainsail, no jib—but then he drew close enough to see the familiar stenciled crab and stripe of dark blue paint, and realized, stunned, that Calypso had outdone her generosity.

Right as they found the boat, the Company found them.

“Halt!” someone yelled behind them. They turned to see blue-and-yellow soldiers spilling from between the trees and onto the beach.

“Run,” said Sparrow, and took off flailing across the sand. No one needed telling twice.

Despite his windmilling, Sparrow was fast. He made it to the boat first, and started pushing it towards the waves.

“Go! Go! Go!” Anamaria yelled as she reached it next, slapping loudly against the side and joining Sparrow’s effort.

James sprinted down the last bit of beach, the others in tow—and then they were all pushing out into the tide and tumbling aboard, watching Company soldiers attempt to chase them into the breakers. It was quick work after that to sail to the site Groves had set up, quicker still to load the cargo, and it wasn’t long before they watched the island shrink away, curls of smoke still rising from the town.

_ • * • _

 _Needless to say, we left Cockburn Town in far worse shape than we found it. Sparrow might argue that it was entirely the Company at fault, but he is far too fond of chaos to be considered truly innocent in the affair. Miraculously, for such a motley bunch of pirates and well-meaning traitors, we managed to accomplish more than we intended. Not only did we free Anamaria and, against all odds, temporarily destabilize the Company’s hold on Grand Turk, but the paperwork Sparrow grabbed at the fort contained what he’d sought: a lead on the location of the_ Black Pearl _._

 _Unfortunately, our operation also led to a disastrous discovery: that regardless of our mutual spite and constant bickering, when we were forced to, Jack Sparrow and I made a surprisingly effective team. Fortunately, we had no time to acknowledge that revelation. Our stolen paperwork declared St. Croix to be the final destination of the shipment Sparrow_ swore _contained the key to regaining the_ Pearl _, which meant we had less than a week’s voyage to figure out where on said island such a thing might be kept, and how to obtain it._

_The venture was ill-advised from the start. Perhaps if we’d had longer to prepare—if we hadn’t been racing the news of our handiwork at Grand Turk—if I had managed to reign in my own distraction—perhaps then the events of St. Croix and all that followed might have unfolded differently._

_As it stood, trouble was inevitable. Unsurprising, really, whenever Sparrow is involved. Sailing out of Cockburn Town with Groves’ purloined supplies, in a boat barely big enough for the size of the crew, we had a mere six days before we reached Company-controlled St. Croix and only the barest notion of what do when we arrived._

_Frankly, it’s a miracle we survived the trip._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO AGAIN HAVE SOME MORE FUN* (*debatable) FACTS:
> 
> \- Sorry again for the ~~plague~~ reference, but also [10% of New York City's population died of yellow fever in 1702 alone](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_York_City#English_rule) soooo.... [wash your hands and wear a mask, kids] [and in the case of yellow fever, dump out standing water so mosquitoes can't breed, i guess? Anyway----]
> 
> \- [Salt was a major export of Grand Turk for a couple centuries](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turks_and_Caicos_Islands#History), which made various people a lot of money! Like just about everything else in the Caribbean that made people a lot of money, it was dependent on slave labor. The Caribbean was central to the [Atlantic slave trade](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atlantic_slave_trade) and you can't talk Caribbean history without talking about slavery (lookin @ you, _disney_ ), so BASICALLY that's expected come up a couple times in this fic....... (errybody's rioting on Grand Turk, is my point)
> 
> \- Anamaria's idea of faking pregnancy to get out of getting hanged comes from the practice of ["pleading the belly"](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pleading_the_belly), whereby a convicted pregnant woman could get her execution delayed until after she gave birth. Here I was of course inspired by famous real pirates [Anne Bonny](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Bonny) and [Mary Read](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Read), who had their executions stayed due to their (real) pregnancies.
> 
> \- BRIEF STORY TIME: so Anne Bonny and Mary Read, as you may know, were members of [Calico Jack Rackham](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calico_Jack)'s crew, though only the three of them knew Anne and Mary were women. Calico Jack, from what I understand, was kiiind of a fuckboy who relied a little less on slaughter than trickery than your standard pirate of the time? And while he did one or two cool things, he and his crew got caught when they ran into another pirate crew they were on good terms with and proceeded to get absolutely wasted drunk, at which point they were ambushed by pirate (bounty) hunters, welp. No one was sober enough to put up any fight except the ladies, apparently?? ~~women getting the real work done amirite~~ And then, as mentioned, Anne and Mary "plead their bellies" and managed to avoid execution! But then Mary Read died in jail and we have absolutely zero record of what happened to Anne Bonny after that.... *spooky music*
> 
> \- OKAY BUT MY POINT IS that if you think Calico Jack Rackham wasn't a partial inspiration for Jack Sparrow, please at least examine his personal pirate flag* and notice it's the same flag the Black Pearl flies? And as such, I BELIEVE we can assume Anamaria's name came from Anne B and Mary R, right? _Right._ Glad you're coming with me on this. :)  
> *(many pirates did actually have their [own personal pirate flag](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jolly_Roger#Historical_designs)!! that ~Hoist The Colors~ part in At World's End was vaguely based on _something_ )
> 
> \- have i mentioned i love anamaria? i love anamaria. ~~can you tell~~


	5. I Don't Wanna Look (Like Some Kind of Fool)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK~
> 
> Apologies for the delay (blame 2020 >____<), but I come bearing an extra long chapter to make up for it! This installment tried very hard to kick my butt, but I spent the summer ~~being massively overworked and~~ wrestling this thing into submission, and... here we are, finally. As always, let me know what you think!
> 
> A FEW QUICK PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENTS:  
> \- MASK UP IN PUBLIC  
> \- BLACK (LIVES, DREAMS, FUTURES) MATTER  
> \- The inclusion and portrayal of Jack Sparrow in this fic does not imply  
> support or acceptance of Johnny Depp or his actions on the part of the author
> 
> okay!! LET'S GO:

“I can't help feeling like we ought to have stayed,” said Groves, eyes fixed on the plume of smoke slowly disappearing over the horizon. "You know, to help."

Sparrow sighed, looking up from where he’d been coiling a line. “Wasn’t our fight, son.” He sounded tired, suddenly, and older than James had heard him.

Groves frowned. “Well, considering I more or less instigated things, I feel responsible—”

Sparrow waved him off. “It was inevitable. Were you the one to struck the match? Indubitably. But if it hadn’t been you, here, today, would the denizens of Cockburn Town have risen up against the East India Trading Company? Undeniably. If it wasn’t you, it’d be someone else. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But soon—couple months at most. Point is, the pitchforks were already sharpened, mate. They were ready to go.”

“But won’t the Company will come down hard?”

“And that is truly unfortunate,” Sparrow said with a theatrical wince. “But the important thing is: we escaped.”

James, tying off the forestay, snorted in disgust. “You really do turn tail at the slightest opportunity to take responsibility for your actions, don’t you, Sparrow?”

Sparrow turned to him. “There was nothing more we could have done. Not unless you’re volunteering to die for their cause—in which case, be my guest.” He gestured invitingly at the sloop’s wake. “They had legitimate grievance with the Company and not enough to lose. They knew what they were getting into.”

“Pathetic,” James spat as Groves looked on, eyes wide. People’s lives and livelihoods had been at stake—how _dare_ Sparrow seem so unconcerned. “Just another attempt to rationalize your cowardice.”

Sparrow stared him down. “Some things are worth fighting for, Commodore, and damn the consequences. The fine folk of Cockburn Town knew that. They saw the chance for freedom, and they took it. Not my place to tell them not to, or they shouldn’t, or whether it’s worth it. A man can’t be getting in the way of that.”

“ _Wow_ ,” said Groves faintly.

James flicked an annoyed glance and found Groves looking rosy and breathless and, frankly, ready to propose. _Traitor_ , James’ mind hissed. He tried to turn to Anamaria or even Gibbs for backup, but they were laughing over something of their own at the helm, and of absolutely no use.

“Fine,” James bit out, suddenly so very done with them all. He turned sharply on his heel and stalked off to the other end of the ship, all of ten paces away. It wasn’t nearly far enough, but it was the best he could do without resorting to murder or throwing himself overboard.

“Best to ignore him,” Sparrow assured Groves, still very much in earshot. “We have business to discuss, you and I.”

“Like what?” Groves asked eagerly.

“As the newest member of the crew,” said Sparrow, throwing am arm across Groves’ shoulders, “there are certain rules, regulations, codes, agreements, treaties, little unspoken bits of culture, and general _expectations_ we expect you to meet, savvy?”

James rolled his eyes so hard it hurt.

“Pay attention, young Groves, this is important,” Sparrow lectured. He sounded far too pleased with himself. “We need to establish some standards for my ship.”

“It’s not your ship, it’s _my_ ship, for God’s sake,” James snapped from the other end of the deck, and was soundly ignored.

“First,” Sparrow continued undaunted, “no Company uniform. You can keep it around to be useful later, but I won’t have you wearing it. Second: no wigs. Take the bloody thing off, you look ridiculous.”

“Oh, right then,” Groves said agreeably. “Not a problem.” Shaking off Sparrow’s arm, he stepped away to remove his hat and wig, tucking the latter under his arm and replacing the former on his head.

Sparrow blinked. “Look at that, he just went and did it,” he said incredulously. He turned to where James was sulking by the prow. “How come you’ve never been that cooperative?”

“Because unlike me, Groves is an idiot,” said James.

“Hey!” Groves protested. He tried to throw the wig at James but missed; it landed, with a small plop, in the waves off the starboard rail. “That’ll be coming out of my salary,” he said, forlorn.

“Aw look,” Anamaria smirked from behind the wheel, “you made him sad.”

James rolled his eyes again.

“I mean, it’s a sensible idea, about the uniform,” said Groves. “I wouldn’t want to draw undue attention to the rest of you.”

Sparrow preened. “You hear that? He said it was a sensible idea.”

“I wasn’t aware you had those, Sparrow,” said James.

“Ha! Only by accident,” said Anamaria.

It was Sparrow’s turn to pout.

“If we’re all done snipping at each other,” said Gibbs, whose patience had apparently run out, “I was thinking it might be nice to get a heading, if it weren’t too much trouble.”

“Ah yes. Gentlemen—and lady,” proclaimed Sparrow, “it appears we will be planning a heist in the near future, details to be forthcoming.”

“A _heist_!” Groves gasped with all the enthusiasm of a child let amok in a sweet shop.

James turned to glare at him. “You’re an embarrassment.”

“And you’re a thundercloud at a picnic,” Groves replied, undaunted. “I’ll thank you to cease raining on my fun.”

“This is not _fun_ ,” James growled. “This is not a _picnic_ —”

“Apologies, for some reason I can’t seem to hear a _word_ you’re saying,” Groves said airily.

James opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by Sparrow.

“Ah yes, Commodore! I almost forgot.” He sauntered over, catching and holding James’ eye.

“What,” said James.

Sparrow just smiled. He hadn’t stopped moving, and James, already hemmed in at the point of the prow, started to feel trapped. He took the single step backwards he had left and tried to kill Sparrow with the force of his glare alone. It didn’t work. Sparrow only followed him, grin spreading.

“ _Sparrow_ ,” James warned. He was distinctly unsettled now, his body buzzing strangely. He held his ground as Sparrow invaded his personal space, trying to use every single inch he had on the pirate to feel like whatever was going on here wasn’t spiraling wildly out of his control. He refused to blink. He would not—his gaze flicked briefly to Sparrow’s mouth. _Fuck_.

“What are you _doing_ ,” James tried desperately.

“Just this,” Sparrow said, close enough that James, looking down at him, could see the different swirls of warm brown that made up the dark of his eyes. He leaned in closer, and closer still. James’ breath caught. Sparrow reached for him—

—and swiped the roll of paperwork James had completely forgotten was still tucked in his belt. Sparrow swanned off, flicking through the pages—leaving James furiously remembering how to breathe, with no idea what the _hell_ just happened.

“…Hello?” Gibbs called from the helm. “Does _anyone_ have a heading?”

_ • * • _

The next morning hadn’t quite dawned when Sparrow woke the rest of them and called for a meeting on deck. So far James had seen no evidence that Sparrow held to any recurring sleep schedule, and very little that suggested the man even slept at all, so perhaps this ungodly hour made sense to him. The rest of the crew were yawning and, James would wager, plotting homicide.

Sparrow hopped up onto the bow and clapped his hands.

“Victory, dear children, is upon us,” he announced with great bombast. “The time for beating around the bush is over, done with, and in fact, out the window entirely—in short, I know where the _Black Pearl_ is.”

The rest of them exchanged looks—save for Groves, who was staring glassily at nothing in a way that suggested he was actually asleep.

“ _Perhaps we can try that again_ ,” Sparrow glared, raising his arms like a conductor, the crew his orchestra. “I know where the _Black Pearl_ is!”

“Aye,” said Gibbs hastily. He put a hand out for Groves, who had begun to list sideways. James leaned back and fantasized about pushing Sparrow overboard, and maybe a really nice cup of tea.

Sparrow threw out his hands in frustration. “ _I absolutely cannot with the lot of you._ ” He hopped down from his perch, startling Groves awake. “I am saddened, disappointed, and positively _heartbroken_. I have no _idea_ how I’m expected to work under these conditions.”

“Oh,” Groves blinked. He turned to Anamaria. “What’d he say he ‘cannot’?”

She shrugged.

“Does this mean we can finally get a proper heading…?” asked Gibbs with a weary sort of hope.

James leaned over. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Does _no one_ care about my _extremely_ important mission to get my ship back?!” whinged Sparrow. “ _Are these the vipers up with which I must put?_ Must I—”

“Fine,” Anamaria sighed. “Where’s your ship, Jack.”

“See, I knew I could trust at least _one_ of you to care about me—granted, not who I expec—”

“ _Jack_ ,” she said, sounding bored and low on patience. “Where is it.”

Sparrow swayed back to narrow his eyes at her, but relented. “St. Croix. Turns out the paperwork from Fort Whatsit back there was useful after all.” He winked at James, who scowled. “So all we have to do is sneak in, grab the _Pearl_ , and slip back out in the dead of night, no one the wiser. A certain goddess of our mutual acquaintance will restore it for me, and there we go, Bob’s your uncle.”

“What d’you mean, restore it?” asked Groves.

“See, that’s the genius of the scheme,” said Sparrow. “We don’t have to sail the _Pearl_ out, because we can’t. She’s shrunk.”

“Shrunk.” James repeated.

“Shrunk. In a bottle. Enchanted bottle, of course. Very important. All we have to do is steal the bottle.”

“After which I can finally be free of your presence, correct?” James asked, yawning. The prospect of that moment, ideally sometime soon, had fueled him these past days, and was currently the only thing keeping him from falling asleep where he sat.

“As free as you like,” said Sparrow smoothly, “subject to whatever terms and conditions Calypso stuck on you, of course.”

“Right,” said Groves, already perking up, “where do we start?”

_ • * • _

 _From the evidence at hand, we knew the shipment had been intended for the Vice Governor of St. Croix and he had received it personally. Groves, from some manner of previous experience, knew the man kept office in his own residence, making it the obvious place to start our search. Such valuable information notwithstanding, we were still left with the daunting task of infiltrating the well-staffed grounds of the Vice Governor’s estate, searching the house, locating the Black Pearl in its magical bottle—and burgling it. And then, somehow, making our escape. All with_ precious _little prior intelligence, and most importantly, without being caught._

_It might be doable, with a fortnight to prepare, the full layout of the house and grounds, some minimal knowledge of the household schedule, and substantial funds to buy information or silence. We had exactly none of those things (except, perhaps, the means for minor bribery) and were on a deadline, besides. News always travels faster than should be possible, and we had only a short window in which to operate before word of the revolt at Grand Turk spread, and security across Company holdings tightened. If we couldn’t retrieve Sparrow’s ship before then, it was likely we never would._

_A consensus was quickly reached: we needed a plan. And just as quickly, the planning process veered off course._

_ • * • _

“I’ve been dead, so enlighten me,” said James. “You say the East India Trading Company is everywhere. Besides St. Croix, Grand Turk, the Caicos—Jamaica, still, I assume—what other islands do they currently control?”

So far, the worst part of returning to life was the missing time. The islands had been in a state of political upheaval when he’d died, and James was still uncertain exactly how long he’d missed. A year? More? Perhaps Groves knew. What all had happened in that time? Not knowing was more than an annoyance, it was a tactical disadvantage, and one he particularly resented.

Groves frowned. “Quite a lot by this point, actually—”

“Aye,” said Gibbs. “They’ve got Aruba, Jamaica, ooh let’s see—Bermuda, quite a bit of the Bahamas, most of the Keys…”

“They’re still operating out of Port Royal,” Groves said grimly, “so it’ll be to Jamaica they’ll take us if we’re caught.”

“Is there anywhere that’s escaped their reach?” asked James, trying to tamp down the helpless frustration rising to swamp him. He’d known, by the end, that the world would spin on perfectly fine without him. And indeed it had. It wouldn’t have been an issue if James were still dead, but wasn’t that shaping up to be the theme of this new life? He’d have thought resurrection would be more… _profound_ , somehow, but all he had to show for it were the scars through his torso he’d been trying not to look at, and a complete ignorance of current events. It was really quite irritating.

“See, Kokomo would be the place to hide out for a while,” Gibbs mused.

“Yes, but my ship is not there,” said Sparrow, eyes wild and intense.

“Hang on,” Groves said, “I thought Kokomo didn’t exist.”

“Enough! Let us leave Kokomo out of this, shall we?” said Sparrow with a cutting motion. He was looking feral around the edges, and James took a judicious step out of his way. “Expunge it from our thoughts forthwith.”

Gibbs and Anamaria looked at each other, then burst into shared sniggers.

“More pirate secrets, I take it,” Groves sighed to James.

James glared at the still-giggling pirates, wishing it achieved anything besides his own discomfort. “So it would seem.”

_ • * • _

The sun climbed steadily in the muggy morning. James had long since realized that despite the _prolific_ amounts of talking going on in regards to “the plan,” absolutely nothing further of value had been contributed to the discussion. Now, headache brewing, he was waiting for _anyone else_ to notice. Currently he was out of luck.

“ _Yes_ , but—” Sparrow was saying.

“I’m telling you,” Groves insisted, “I met him eight months ago at an event and he mentioned it _himself_ —”

“What event was this?” Sparrow asked suspiciously.

“Hey,” Anamaria interjected from where she, like James, had given up on the confab and was now leaning on the railing. No one looked up.

“What I think Jack is _trying_ to say,” said Gibbs, placating, “is a lot can happen in eight months?”

“Excuse me,” Anamaria tried again, louder, sounding bored.

“But surely too much can’t have changed, right?” asked Groves.

“ _Hello_ ,” Anamaria snapped.

“Now Groves,” said Sparrow, oblivious, “while I approve of you knowing useful things like that, I—”

Anamaria had resorted to watching, eyes narrowed, waiting for her chance. James’ case of death-related ignorance had mostly kept him out of the discussion, but her attempts had not escaped his notice.

“You have something?” he asked her.

Anamaria rolled her eyes and nodded at the idiot huddle.

James tipped his head. “What, then?”

“I might have something to say if they shut up for a minute,” she said.

Headache fully manifested, James had reached the last dregs of his patience. “Shall I get their attention?”

“Nah,” said Anamaria with a nasty smile. “I wanna see how long it takes them.”

“In that case we’ll be here all night,” said James, “and I don’t think I could survive that.”

She tilted her head in acknowledgement.

“If it helps, I was approaching the point of yelling at them anyway,” he offered.

“Fine,” she said after a moment. “Go for it.”

James pitched his voice to carry. “Gentlemen,” he said. No one looked up. Anamaria sighed, examining a fingernail.

“ _GENTLEMEN_ ,” James tried again, in the voice he’d used to issue orders over the roar of cannon fire. He was gratified to see Gibbs and Groves, at least, jump in response.

“Yes…?” Sparrow asked over his shoulder, annoyed.

James gestured to Anamaria. “I believe we have input from this corner?”

“ _Finally_.” She stepped forward and crossed her arms.

Sparrow narrowed his eyes. “What.”

“If you knew how to shut up,” she said, “I could’ve told you that I know somebody on St. Croix who can put us in touch with anybody who works for the Vice Governor.”

Sparrow immediately turned on her. “Well why didn’t you say so?”

Anamaria stared him down, gaze a weapon, though Sparrow apparently lacked the grace to be cowed by it.

“Oh, excellent,” said Gibbs. “That’s a good lead.” He was oblivious to—or chose to ignore—Sparrow and Anamaria glaring daggers over his head.

Gibbs was right, it _was_ a good lead, far better than entering blind. “Be that as it may,” said James, determined to be the voice of sense, “we’re still left with nothing to do until we reach the island and can arrange a rendezvous to gather intelligence.”

“Sounds about right,” Groves shrugged.

“Aye,” agreed Gibbs. “Is that the plan, then?”

“The _plan_ ,” said Sparrow, pointing a finger at him, “is we get there fast—and then we take it slow.”

“Aye,” Gibbs said again. “Perfect. So… what does that mean?”

_ • * • _

 _Sparrow, strangely enough, had it right. We sailed for St. Croix, racing the news of our previous chaos, Anamaria’s contact our first stop and our best lead. We would finalize our plans from there. But first we had to reach the island—and refrain, somehow, from killing each other along the way…_

_ • * • _

The trip might have gone smoother if there had been actual work to do, but like before, the now-sloop seemed to almost know where it was going, and was determined to help get them there. James found he was growing used to it—the luxury of a guiding hand in the way the wind caught the sails and the rudder found the right currents—but Groves was endlessly fascinated. He kept inspecting the lines and sheets and canvas and wheel, entranced by the way they positively sang in the light breeze.

Magic boat aside, Groves also proved relentless at wringing _every conceivable drop_ of information out of the crew on the subject of Calypso. James, quite frankly, wasn’t inclined to be wrung. To no one's surprise, Gibbs leaped on the chance to pick up the slack; the gift of an eager audience for his tall tales had left him downright rapturous.

Which was how James learned Calypso was the goddess of the sea, and possibly the _actual sea itself_ —which felt like a rather vital piece of information someone ought to have told him already. Apparently she’d had a love affair with Davy Jones, of all… people, and when it inevitably went sour, she’d been the one to curse him and his crew with the slow sea-change James still had nightmares about. In return, he’d had her bound in human form for centuries, from which she was newly released. It seemed even immortals weren’t exempt from the acrimony of a bad breakup.

But as it happened, there was little else to do except tell stories. Gibbs was the obvious and most willing volunteer, of course—and veracity of his yarn-spinning aside, James couldn’t deny that Gibbs had always possessed a certain _flair_ —but Groves had a few tales of his own, and Sparrow, of course, took to the opportunity to spout ridiculous nonsense like a moth to flame.

Case in point: whatever he was attempting to get Groves to believe at the moment.

“And _that_ ,” Sparrow was saying dramatically, “was when we ran into the aliens.”

“What do you mean by aliens?” asked Groves.

Gibbs’ face lit up. “Beings from other worlds among the stars!” He leaned in and Groves mirrored him, entranced. “See, it happened like this—”

As Gibbs launched into the tale, James turned to Sparrow. “Been reading your Bruno, have you?” he asked, sarcastic. “And were these ‘aliens’ followers of our lord Christ, as he wrote?”

Sparrow abandoned all pretense of being involved in the story, turning to James with sudden focus and something approving in his quicksilver smirk. “Now now, Commodore, you know he only wrote that to get the Church off his back. But no,” he continued thoughtfully. “No, the man was obviously a secret genius, but the aliens we happened to run into—almost literally, in fact—showed no interest in our Earthly theologies, if you can believe it.”

“I trust you won’t be offended if I don’t,” said James, suddenly struck by his circumstances. The sun was shining, he was back from the dead, a goddess had given them a magical sloop, and whether or not he’d _actually_ met beings from another world, Jack Sparrow had read Giordano Bruno. _What a world_ , thought James. He should probably stop being surprised about the breadth of Sparrow’s scattershot education, but apparently today would not be that day.

“Not at all, mate,” Sparrow waved him off with a conspiratorial smile. James didn’t intend to return it, but it was proving hard to resist. “Believe what you like, no skin off my back…”

“Quite,” said James instead, awkward. He then found it vital to stalk off to check the mainsheet (and generally pretend the boat might need sailing) so as to not examine the bubble of lightness threatening to take up residence in his lungs—but it was fine. James was fine.

_ • * • _

Though the sloop needed minimal supervision, Gibbs and James agreed it was better to be safe than sorry, and drew up a watch schedule—which was how James found himself on duty that night, watching scattered clouds drift in front of the moon and stars.

Sparrow approached him late on his shift.

“I bring you the pleasure of my company,” he said.

“Anyone who calls your company a pleasure is either being paid for their time or ought to have their head examined,” said James. He ignored the small, traitorous voice at the back of his mind suggesting he ought to have his own head examined while he was at it.

“I suspected you might say that, which is why I also brought this,” Sparrow pulled out a bottle.

“Where did you get that?” James asked with some censure.

“If that’s how you’re going to be, then all the more for me,” said Sparrow, pulling it back to clutch to his chest.

“Not what I said,” retorted James. Sparrow’s (ongoing, close-quarters) presence was threatening to turn disconcerting again, and he could use a drink. He folded himself down onto a coil of spare line and stuck his hand out for the liquor.

Sparrow handed it over readily, despite his theatrics. The first sip tasted expensive, smooth and strong, and James raised the bottle to examine it with a frown. “Where _did_ you get this?”

“Now now,” Sparrow purred, leaning back with the grin of a cat given access to the cream supply, “that would be telling.”

Groves and Anamaria had won the night’s draw for the two hammocks in the tiny excuse for a cabin, and had long since retreated, separately, to victorious slumber. Gibbs had taken most of the watch the previous night, and was currently dead to the world on a patch of deck, waistcoat rolled up as a pillow. After a few swigs in nearly companionable silence, Sparrow had to try to ruin it.

“So, Commodore,” he began, in a tone that positively dripped with promised mockery and/or humiliation.

James was not in the mood, and took a stand. "Will you _ever_ stop calling me that? It obviously isn’t my current rank. Obviously it wasn’t my last rank, either. You know well I haven't been a Commodore in… years," he realized.

From what he could tell, it had been over three years since his promotion ceremony. It might have been three lifetimes. He’d had a plan for his future back then—it had been sensible, clear-cut, and absolutely none of it had come to pass. Save, perhaps, that he’d made Admiral. But Admiral for the Company, acting as Beckett’s war dog, was a far cry from the legitimate station he’d dreamed of—

And then Sparrow answered his question.

"We call you Commodore, Commodore, because you still act like one. Righteous and bossy and can’t take a joke.” His grin glinted in the lantern light, all teeth.

“S’the posture,” Gibbs mumbled nearby, eyes closed. “Got Commodore posture.” They both turned to look at him.

“I thought you were asleep,” said Sparrow. Gibbs rolled over and let loose a snore. They stared at him a moment longer.

“In other words,” Sparrow said, looking up with an infuriating smirk, “chalk it up to old habits. Besides,” he poked James with his elbow, “how come you never call me Captain?"

"I call you by your name, which does not bear the constant expectation of having a ship attached to it," drawled James, settling back further against his lumpy cushion of rope.

"That is _hardly_ a reasonable excuse for such blatant disrespect of my achievements, Commodore,” Sparrow huffed. “And while I don’t mind being called ‘Sparrow’—generally—usually—most of the time—I _do_ have a problem with the way you _always say it_ , like you’re about to clap me in irons any minute. Gives me flashbacks. If you really can't manage 'Captain Sparrow'—" He broke off. “Could you? Could you possibly manage—?”

“No,” said James, lifting the bottle to his lips. Sparrow shot him a narrow-eyed glare. James took another swig and tried not to smile.

Turning away with a distinct flounce, Sparrow muttered something that sounded like “definitely not invited to my garden party.”

After a silent, sulky minute, he peered back over his shoulder and said, "Look, call me Jack, at least. Screwed each other over enough for given names, aye?"

From what he knew of the relationships in Sparrow’s life, James considered that this was probably a completely normal and sincere offer of peace. James despaired sometimes, he really did.

"James," he relented, offering a hand. Sparrow—Jack—turned fully to grin at him, and shook it. His hand was warm and calloused, and the contact sent… something… through James. In the dim warmth of the lantern, he found he couldn’t tear his eyes from Sparrow’s.

A noise came from the tiny cabin and James, startled, realized how close he and Sparrow were sitting. He jerked back, his face inexplicably warm. He attempted to collect himself, trying to look anywhere but Sparrow—and found himself making eye contact with Anamaria, emerging from inside. That was… not better. He wondered, mortified, how much she’d seen.

To his relief, Anamaria only rolled her eyes as she passed them to take the wheel. James took the opportunity to escape into the cabin, where he wholeheartedly attempted to drown himself in sleep.

_ • * • _

He awoke the next morning with the remains of a headache and a lingering embarrassment churning in his gut. What had that _been_ , last night? Had Sparrow truly been offering some manner of olive branch, or was this merely some new form of attempted humiliation? ‘Call me Jack’—certainly not.

Sparrow lit up when he saw him, which James knew meant nothing good. “Morning, James!” he called cheerfully.

The deck fell silent. James suddenly found Sparrow and himself subject to three sets of raised eyebrows and the attention of the entire ship. Gibbs and Groves just looked between them, Groves with curiosity and Gibbs with consternation, but Anamaria turned on Sparrow with a smirk.

“He’s ‘James’ now, huh?”

James, awkward under the weight of all the staring, covered his embarrassment and headache with as much dignity and formal ice as he could muster.

“Sparrow,” he acknowledged.

All of Sparrow’s cheer evaporated; his face fell into a giant, hurt pout. James crushed his attendant flicker of guilt. The other three lacked the decency to even _pretend_ not to be following closely, as if he and Sparrow were some spectator sport.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” James snapped.

Gibbs, Anamaria and Groves exchanged glances.

“No,” said Anamaria, blunt.

“Not really,” said Groves, apologetic.

Gibbs shrugged.

James surveyed his options for a minute and found nothing good. “Be so kind as to wake me if someone attacks,” he said, then turned tail and went the fuck back to bed.

_ • * • _

He did, eventually, have to get up. It was after noon when he emerged from refuge, only to find Sparrow still in the throes of a massive sulk—and subjecting James to the silent treatment. That didn’t, however, stop him from throwing James offended looks throughout the day, in between major movements of his ongoing and _far too successful_ campaign to charm Groves into corruption. James did not care, not in the least.

“You’re sighing again,” said Anamaria.

“Pardon?” James asked, frigid, tearing his eyes from where Groves sat entranced by Sparrow’s frequent interruptions to Gibbs’ story.

“You,” she said. “I see you.”

“I find him obnoxious,” said James, “and you already knew that.”

She smirked at him. “Didn’t sound like that kind of sigh, ex-Commodore.”

James wasn’t entirely sure what she was implying, but neither did he want to find out. He ignored her and went to chase down what shade he could find in the afternoon heat, in the hope it would ease the particular headache Sparrow always seemed to bring on.

Time passed with all the vigor of cold treacle. James attempted to tune out everything but the creak of the sails and the slap of water against the hull, but the ongoing effort was trying his patience. Moreover, Anamaria kept _looking_ at him. Through the various roles and ranks of his previous life, James had been forced to attend his fair share of society functions where he’d been paraded around as a marriageable piece of meat, and as such was familiar with the various ways women _looked_ at him when they wanted what he had. His salary. His influence. His body, occasionally.

This was none of those. Anamaria looked at him as if she were attempting to read his soul at twenty paces—or less, this boat was _far_ too small. Or, perhaps, like she was conducting a thorough analysis on the benefits of changing her mind and murdering James in his sleep after all. Either way, it wasn’t helping.

Finally, he’d had enough. James caught her eyes on him again and snapped.

“ _What_. What is it.”

Anamaria sat back, gaze losing intensity but not… whatever it was behind it. James waited, unsettled, for her to say something, _anything_ , but she just watched him.

“I’m on the fence about you,” she said after a long moment. Crossing her arms, she leaned back against the rail and squinted.

“Ah,” said James snottily, to hide his nerves. “I take it you’re rethinking your decision not to stab me—it’s very kind of you to inform me, I didn’t expect the warning.”

“Don’t worry, you’re still safe from me.” She gave him a pointed look. “For now.”

“Much appreciated.”

“I meant,” said Anamaria, “on the fence about _you_.”

James realized, far too late: _this conversation was a mistake_. He straightened uncomfortably, bracing for her judgment.

“You were our enemy for so long,” she continued. “ _The_ enemy. The Pirate Hunter. And then you fell off the Earth, and apparently some shit happened,” she waved him up and down, “and now here you are. I saw you breaking us out of that fort. And I have to say, it looks real good. It’s a great story, you switching sides. And apparently you’ve gotten Jack Sparrow to trust you now, too—congratulations, I don’t know what you did.”

James blinked. Sparrow didn’t _trust_ him, that was absurd. It’d be idiotic for Sparrow to trust James, and for all that Sparrow was a fool who’d long since parted ways with sanity, he wasn’t an _idiot_.

“But I can’t forget,” said Anamaria, and James knew what was coming. “You’ve put a lot of pirates to death, ex-Commodore. You killed a lot of people I knew. I haven’t forgotten that.”

And there it was. James had been waiting for it, for these people, these _pirates_ , to remember his record. He _had_ sent a lot of pirates to the gallows. He had, as Anamaria put it, _killed a lot of people she knew_. Furthermore, he had worked hard at it. He’d tried to be _thorough_. Honestly, James wasn’t sure why _any_ of the pirates on this boat hadn’t yet stabbed him, let alone Anamaria.

And the worst part was, for all the blood on his hands, James stood by his record. It had been his job, and his job had been to _protect_ people: if he’d removed even one cold blooded predator from the seas—Congdon, Spriggs, Lowe—he couldn’t renounce his actions.

But at the same time, _none of that mattered_. It didn’t _matter_ which ones had been monsters and which were merely a nuisance, who had or hadn’t been a threat. It was far too late for that. They were long dead now, each and every one, and it was James who’d killed them all, and watched as they died. And now James was here, alive, and all of them were not. James was back from the dead and increasingly the whole thing felt like a monumental cock-up—

“So why on Earth _haven’t_ you stabbed me?” spat James, bitterness a hard ball at the back of this throat. “I would.” He steeled himself for whatever Anamaria saw fit to dole out at him. He knew he’d take it, whatever it was. He was sure he deserved it.

She held his gaze, and James yet again had the feeling she was attempting to stare into his soul. “Two reasons,” said Anamaria. “One, Calypso knows what she’s doing and I have to trust that. Not my place to question the old gods. And two,” she smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “All those people you killed? A lot of them had it coming.” She clapped his shoulder and disappeared into the cabin.

James blinked, unseeing, after her. He’d been mistaken. He wasn’t sure he deserved that at all.

_ • * • _

On the third morning, James discovered Sparrow was back to talking to him—though admittedly his greeting of “ _Norrington_ ,” delivered in poisonous tones, did not bode well for Sparrow's having gotten over it already.

James ignored him and sought out Anamaria.

“Did you mean it?” he asked, finding her with breakfast.

She glared back, slightly hazy. James suspected she wasn’t a morning person.

“…What?” she asked after a moment.

“…Yesterday. What you said.”

Her eyes softened. “Yes, I did,” she snapped, but it lacked malice.

The tension in James’ ribs eased. He offered her a half smile. The corner of her mouth twitched back, which James considered a victory. They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the sunrise.

“Also,” said Anamaria suddenly, eyes still fixed on the horizon, “whether you’re serious or not about starting over, you've got to admire Calypso’s style. Bringing you back from the dead to play bodyguard for _Jack Sparrow_? Outstanding.”

She glanced back and—she was _definitely_ laughing at him. James winced.

“Touche.”

_ • * • _

As St. Croix drew inexorably nearer, James’ misgivings about the upcoming heist only grew. Cockburn Town had been different: the East India Company had abused their power, the citizens had been ready to mobilize, ergo the Company’s time was up. Besides the coup, their little band’s only crime had been freeing Anamaria, which James didn’t regret, now he’d met her.

Across the deck, Groves laughed at something Sparrow said. In fact, Anamaria was probably the person on the ship he hated least, James thought, bristling. Except then she turned and met his eyes, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head at the Jack Sparrow appreciation society—and she was laughing at him again, it was obvious. Correction, she was not his favorite. Perhaps Gibbs would do, instead.

 _Nonetheless_ —James hauled his thoughts back to order—their actions at Cockburn Town had been one thing, burgling someone’s private home was another. A robbery like this felt more like abject piracy—and James, for all that he’d changed his allegiances of late, still wasn’t a pirate.

But he had no other choice; he was, unfortunately, still bound to Sparrow. And with the drama of Grand Turk behind them, no course of action available until they reached St. Croix, and no actual work in the meantime, James was left with dangerously little to do except watch Groves continue to eat up all of Sparrow’s blasted stories, and try not to drown in his own blasted thoughts.

Anamaria came over to interrupt James' quiet seething.

“Jealousy’s not a good look for you, ex-Commodore.”

“Stop it,” James hissed, but she only laughed and pushed past him into the cabin.

Anamaria was wrong, of course. It wasn’t _jealousy_. If anything, it was a failure to understand what Groves saw in Sparrow, and vice versa. Sparrow was hardly as impressive as he made himself out to be, and the fact Groves so readily trusted him was infuriating. They were both idiots. It was actively painful to watch. But what could he do? James was confined with them on a tiny ship surrounded by miles of ocean, there was no escape. He suddenly remembered he’d never _definitively_ ruled out the possibility he was still dead and stuck in Hell. Hm. That was an oversight.

_ • * • _

By the fifth day of sailing, Sparrow’s attention span, in terms of his snit, had finally given out. James was inclined to be uncharitable, and suspected Sparrow had merely forgotten to keep up the grudge. Or perhaps he’d gotten bored. Regardless, Sparrow was back to being perfectly cordial, like his dramatics of the past few days simply hadn’t occurred—and with the certified worst pirate talking to him again, James had a score (or three) to settle.

He found Sparrow sitting on the rail. The pirate was staring moodily into the distance, one leg up, fiddling with his compass: opening, consulting, and closing it again, as James had caught him doing more than once this trip. But if the compass had offered any navigational insight, Sparrow hadn’t seen fit to share it. In fact he’d been avoiding the helm entirely—which was odd, as he was arguably the one most familiar with Calypso and her magic. If Sparrow’s squeamishness wasn’t because of the magic boat, then the reason remained either mysterious or purely arbitrary, and either way it frustrated James to no end.

"Tell me," he rounded on him, “are you _ever_ going to take your turn at the helm?”

Sparrow sat up straight, snapping shut the compass and tucking it away. “Well now, Commodore,” he said, “considering the concentration of experienced sea men—and sea women, I suppose—per square inch of this vessel, and considering this vessel’s spooky habit of not quite needing sailed, it seems increasingly obvious that my presence at the helm is thoroughly unnecessary, wouldn’t you say?”

Privately, James agreed. They _were_ collectively overqualified for this little sloop, especially as it _did_ keep mostly sailing itself, but it was the principle of the thing.

“See here I was, for whatever mad reason, thinking you _liked_ sailing, Sparrow,” James drawled, “or are you in the piracy business solely for the whores and booze?”

“And the gold, mate, can’t forget about that.” Sparrow grinned up at him, eyes alight with humor.

Something warm twisted in the pit of James’ stomach. He resisted the urge to tear his hair out, but it was close. He grit his teeth instead. “So you’re attempting to absolve yourself of any responsibility for the helm, is that right?”

“Ah, you see, under different circumstances I’d be pleased as punch to take the helm, but—” Sparrow tilted his head and grimaced. “She doesn’t seem to like me.”

“What…?” James blinked. He suspected Sparrow had tripped him into a different conversation entirely. It was becoming a familiar feeling.

In lieu of an answer, Sparrow twirled his index fingers, pointing down at the deck.

“The…boat,” said James, baffled.

Sparrow nodded. “I’m starting to suspect the possibility she might be mad at me.”

“The…boat,” said James, baffled.

The pirate rolled his eyes. “No, Calypso.”

James really ought to give up trying to understand this madman, but he couldn’t help himself. “So let me get this straight—you think Calypso’s mad at you and therefore _the boat doesn’t like you_ , am I understanding correctly?”

“To be fair, this is not the first time I’ve found myself on the wrong end of her favor,” Sparrow said with a what-can-you-do shrug. “Women, am I right?”

“ _To be fair_ ,” said James, “I’m given to understand this is hardly the first time you’ve begged her to get your ship back for you, ‘am I right’?”

Sparrow narrowed his eyes and muttered something about sewing Gibbs’ bloody mouth shut.

“So tell me,” James sneered, riding high on his own pent-up frustrations, “how does it feel to be a ceaseless, maddening burden to everyone around you, up to and including supernatural entities?”

“I don’t know,” Sparrow shot back, eyes alight with challenge, “how does it feel to be wound so tight your dick would break off if you ever tried having a wank?”

James raised an eyebrow. “Your interest, I take it, is due to yours having obviously rotted away by now—”

“Ay!” Anamaria yelled from somewhere behind them. “Stop talking about each other’s dicks, some of us are trying to live our lives in peace over here!”

Sparrow raised several fingers at her. James was almost overcome with an inexplicable urge to laugh, but managed to keep it to a snort. He couldn’t help it—exchanging insults with Sparrow, he was horrified to discover, was proving strangely _enjoyable_. He almost didn’t want to stop.

_ • * • _

Still reeling from the traumatic realization he might actually, on the rare occasion, enjoy Sparrow’s company, James resolved to spend the rest of the voyage avoiding the man. It was a doomed proposition from the start, considering there was nowhere to go.

Instead James found his eyes returning to Sparrow again and again. Sometimes it was the ridiculous ways he moved, curiously graceful as he twitched and swayed around the tiny deck. Other times James caught Sparrow still and pensive, or muttering strange conversations to himself—and once, in a quiet moment, reapplying the smudged kohl around his eyes. James had retreated quietly from the last, feeling he’d intruded on something strangely private.

Sparrow had noticed James looking, of course. How could he not? He'd begun smirking every time he found James’ eyes on him. And yet James couldn’t make himself stop. Each time he blinked and realized he was doing it _again_ his horror grew, until he could no longer deny his findings: to whit, James had finally succumbed to whatever dark magic Sparrow used to illogically endear himself to the _entire bloody world_.

Such a development, obviously, was beyond the pale. Not going to happen. Sparrow had made a fool of him _far_ too many times, James wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of having this as well. No matter how often James found his eyes and thoughts acting the needle to Sparrow’s lodestone, he wouldn’t bend. He had excellent self-control. This would pass.

The next morning, James woke up, rolled out of his lottery hammock, and came on deck—where his gaze immediately sought out Sparrow, leaning on his elbows on the rail, gold-edged in the early sunlight. James found he had to take a breath. Apparently it _hadn’t_ passed. In the privacy of his mind, James swore viciously and at length and contemplated returning to the hammock.

It was then—mercifully—he noticed the smudges of land in the faint distance. If his mental map was correct, they ought to be the Passage Islands—from here, St. Croix was less than a day’s sail.

 _Thank God and whoever else is listening_ , thought James. He might survive this trip after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OKAY LONG CHAPTER LONG NOTES:**
> 
> \- first of all: yes I took another bit from On Stranger Tides ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> \- [Giordano Bruno: oh man, where do I start?](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giordano_Bruno) Wikipedia calls him a friar, philosopher, mathematician, poet, cosmological theorist, and occultist—which is a hell of a resume. Not only did he bounce around late 1500’s Europe defying the Catholic Church by insisting Copernicus was right and the Earth went around the Sun (and not vice versa), he took it several steps further by theorizing that the stars were more than dots of light: they were other suns that fostered other planets which might bear life (!!!). Unsurprisingly, the Church thought he was too whacko to live (see also: occultist) and burned him at the stake in 1600. Welp.  
> Bruno's way more famous contemporary [Galileo](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Galileo_Galilei), OTOH, got off much lighter when it was his turn to get into trouble with the Church over astronomy several decades later; he was ‘only’ sentenced to house arrest for the rest of his life. But then again, Galileo was out there building telescopes which he used to discover Saturn’s rings and the 4 biggest moons of Jupiter and [the phases of Venus](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phases_of_Venus), not teaching people weird things about aliens and pantheism and memory techniques and reincarnation like Bruno, so you can kind of see their point. That is, if you’re the Catholic Church and are into burning people to death who don’t agree with your dogma, I guess?? (Regardless, Bruno: what a guy~)
> 
> \- KOKOMO ISN’T REAL it’s a song by the Beach Boys (though [the Muppets version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0qnDM2U534) is ~definitive)  
> (fun fact: the Kokomo song was written for the movie Cocktail (1988) starring Tom Cruise, which you've probably never heard of, because it [won a Razzie](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cocktail_\(1988_film\)#Accolades) for Worst Picture of the year. Plot twist: the same year, the Oscar for Best Picture went to Rain Man (1988), which _also_ starred Tom Cruise. This makes Tom Cruise the only actor to ever star in the award-winning best and worst movies of a single year—which is pretty much peak Tom Cruise, lbh)
> 
> \- Congdon, Spriggs, and Lowe were historical pirates who were violent dirtbags, basically. I was looking through wikipedia for sufficiently-asshole pirates whose names I could steal and these dudes were some pieces of work—unarguably, [Lowe](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Low) was the worst, a real psycho, but [Spriggs](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francis_Spriggs) was his bff, and while [Congdon/Condent](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Condent) is mildest on the list, it’s not like he wasn’t also terrible (he liked to cut off bits of the faces of ppl he captured) soooo yeah go read their pages if you really wanna ~wallow~ in historical accounts of sadism I guess
> 
> \- a [lodestone](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lodestone) is a chunk of magnetite whose magnetic field is naturally aligned AKA a naturally occurring magnet! Fun! People around the world have been using them for various things (but mostly compasses) for a very long time! Historical record starts ~12th century in Europe, but they’re in Chinese texts dating back to the 2nd century, and turns out the Olmecs in ancient Mexico were using them even before that! Yay! Magnets!
> 
> \- aaand last but not least 'Passage Islands' is an old name for the Spanish/Puerto Rican Virgin Islands, which today are part of Puerto Rico, which means technically they’re part of the USA. But [like the rest of Puerto Rico](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Federal_voting_rights_in_Puerto_Rico), they don’t have representation in Congress and don't get to vote in national elections, which is pretty bullshit!  
> HAMFISTED MORAL: THANK YOU FOR VOTING IF YOU WERE ABLE! MANY PEOPLE ARE NOT  
> (more importantly: SUPPORT PUERTO RICAN ENFRANCHISEMENT)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going a little slow on this one, but it's very much in progress! I've been working on and off on some form of this monster for multiple years now, so I'm well stuck in, don't worry.  
> More soon, please let me know what you think...


End file.
